RITA 


JULIAN  STREET 


RITA  COVENTRY 


OP  CALIF.    LIBRARY,   LOS  ANGELES 


Books  by  Julian  Street 


ABROAD  AT  HOME 

AFTER  THIRTY 

AMERICAN  ADVENTURES 

THE  NEED  OF  CHANGE 

THE  MOST  INTERESTING  AMERICAN 

(A  close  range  study  of  Theodore  Rootevelt) 

PARIS  A  LA  CARTE 
SHIP-BORED 
WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY 
THE  GOLDFISH 

(For  Children) 

SUNBEAMS,  INC. 
MYSTERIOUS  JAPAN 
RITA  COVENTRY 


RITA  COVENTRY 

BY 
JULIAN  STREET 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
JULIAN  STREET 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED,    INCLUDING   THAT   OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY  IN  THE 
UNITED  STATES  AND  GREAT  BRITAIN 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y 

First  Edition 


531 


TO 

ADA 

IN  GRATEFUL  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


2133037 


RITA  COVENTRY 


RITA  COVENTRY 

CHAPTER  I 

ALONG  New  Yorkers  it  is  recognized  that 
the  changing  seasons  do  not  first  announce 
themselves  from  almanacs,  nor  in  precocious 
items  upon  menus,  nor  yet  among  the  growing  things 
of  Riverside  Drive  and  Central  Park.  The  first 
signs  make  themselves  apparent  on  the  treeless, 
grassless  reaches  of  that  hard-paved  highway  ex 
tending  from  the  Waldorf  to  the  Plaza.  And  to-day, 
though  it  was  but  mid-February  according  to  the 
calendar,  the  dense  and  animated  crowds  upon 
Fifth  Avenue,  the  brightening  costumes  worn  by 
women  and  exhibited  in  windows,  and  a  bursting 
golden  something  in  the  air  proclaimed  the  spring. 

To  Richard  Parrish  the  miracle  was  the  more  won 
derful  because  he  had  not  seen  it  come  to  pass.  It 
had  been  revealed  to  him,  a  thing  accomplished,  on  his 
return  this  morning  from  a  brief  trip  to  Chicago. 
Only  a  week  ago  he  had  left  New  York  plunged  in  its 
miserable  winter:  slush  swimming  in  the  streets  and 
a  solution  of  slush  swimming  in  the  heavy  atmosphere 
above  them,  mixed  with  the  gaseous  breath  of 
coughing  motor  cars.  Chicago  had  been  as  bad  or 


2  RITA  COVENTRY 

worse.  The  weather  there,  coupled  with  what  Par- 
rish  persisted  in  regarding  as  a  provincial  taxi  service, 
had  forced  him  to  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  rubbers- — 
things  abominable  alike  to  his  bachelor  fastidiousness 
and  to  his  feeling,  as  a  youngish  and  active  man,  that 
rubbers  properly  belonged  to  the  equipment  of  de 
crepitude. 

A  wet  snow  had  been  falling  yesterday  in  Chicago. 
He  had  worn  the  rubbers  to  the  train,  but  once  in 
his  Pullman  had  quickly  slipped  them  off,  and  in 
expression  of  their  permanent  dismissal  from  his  life 
had  pushed  them  far  into  the  recess  under  the  op 
posite  seat.  And  though  this  renunciation  implied 
in  him  nothing  of  the  ground-hog's  gift  of  prophecy, 
the  weather  in  New  York  this  morning  had  seemed  to 
give  benignant  sanction  to  the  act. 

It  was  a  day  for  open  windows.  The  windows  of 
his  limousine  had  been  open  as  he  drove  home  from 
the  station,  yet  he  had  felt  the  weight  of  his  winter 
overcoat  uncomfortably.  Entering  his  apartment 
he  found  the  windows  open  there,  for  I  to,  his  ser 
vant,  had  seen  to  that.  The  curtains  swayed  gently 
in  a  soft  breeze;  a  pattern  of  dappled  sunshine,  sifting 
through  them,  wavered  over  the  fixed  pattern  of  the 
library  rug,  and  from  the  streets,  ten  floors  below, 
floated  up  to  him  a  medley  of  sounds  blending  into  a 
not  altogether  inharmonious  symphony. 

He  had  not  telephoned  to  Alice  until  after  bathing 
and  looking  through  his  accumulated  mail;  nor  did 
the  thought  strike  him  that  in  the  period  of  their 


RITA  COVENTRY  3 

close  comradeship  this  was  the  first  time  the  tele 
phoning,  on  his  return  after  an  absence  from  New 
York,  had  been  thus  postponed.  That,  however, 
was  the  fact.  In  the  course  of  the  past  year  he  had 
made  four  of  these  short  business  trips.  After  the 
first  two  he  had  telephoned  her  from  the  station. 
Last  time  he  had  come  home  before  telephoning. 
This  time  he  had  not  telephoned  until  he  was  ready 
to  start  down  to  his  office. 

Then  he  had  departed  for  Wall  Street,  wearing  for 
the  first  time  this  year  a  light  overcoat  and  a  soft 
gray  hat,  and  carrying  a  wanghee  cane.  The  day 
in  the  Street  had  been  one  of  mere  routine;  the 
market  was  dull;  at  the  close  he  had  come  up 
town  on  a  leisurely  Elevated  train  in  preference  to 
the  swifter  Subway,  and  descending  at  Thirty-third 
Street  had  walked  to  his  apartment  by  way  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  Then  and  then  only  had  he  felt 
entirely  at  home  again,  for  it  is  not  until  he  has 
walked  Fifth  Avenue  that  the  returned  New  Yorker 
feels  certain  of  his  reinstatement. 

Now,  seated  in  his  library,  with  the  late  sun 
shining  through  the  west  windows  like  a  rose- 
coloured  calcium  in  the  theatre,  his  thoughts 
were  on  the  Avenue  and  what  had  happened  there. 
Not  only  had  he  seen  the  spring  emphatically  con 
firmed,  but  his  walk  was  illumined  by  a  circumstance 
the  adventurous  flavour  of  which  seemed  to  him 
exquisitely  suited  to  the  season,  and  left  him  filled  with 
a  strange  restlessness. 


4  RITA  COVENTRY 

The  restlessness  was  more  than  merely  vernal. 
There  was  contrition  in  it;  and  because  the  contrition 
had  to  do  with  Alice  Meldrum,  Parrish  felt  now,  as 
the  time  when  he  must  go  to  her  drew  near,  an  ob 
scure  sense  of  annoyance  with  her.  When  a  man  is 
about  to  wound  the  feelings  of  a  tender-hearted 
and  adoring  woman  he  is  likely  to  feel  a  little  bit  an 
noyed  with  her. 

In  a  sense,  he  reflected,  Alice  would  have  no  right 
to  feel  hurt.  He  had  made  no  definite  engagement 
with  her  for  this  evening.  Yesterday,  before  de 
parting  from  Chicago,  he  had  wired  her  that  he  was 
starting.  This  morning  he  had  telephoned  that  he 
was  back  and  would  be  in  to  see  her  late  in  the  after 
noon.  Specifically,  that  was  all.  But  the  trouble  was 
that  at  the  time  of  telephoning  he  had  planned  to  take 
her  out  to  dinner,  and  had  known  that  she  would  un 
derstand  it  so.  There  lay  his  difficulty.  So  many 
things  were  understood  between  them  in  that  way. 

Of  course  it  was  not  his  fault  that  his  plans  were 
changed.  When  he  telephoned  to  Alice  how  could 
he  have  foreseen  that  in  the  glory  of  the  afternoon  he 
would  meet  Larry  Merrick  proudly  escorting  the 
gorgeous  Rita  Coventry,  or  that  Larry  would  stop 
and  present  him — for  the  purpose,  Parrish  suspected, 
of  exhibiting  his  privilege  of  addressing  the  singer  by 
her  first  name.  By  a  happy  chance  the  meeting  had 
occurred  in  front  of  Yamanaka's,  which  led  to  the 
discovery  that  Rita  and  he  had  a  kindred  interest 
in  Japanese  prints.  But  even  so,  who  could  have 


RITA  COVENTRY  5 

anticipated  that  on  what  was  evidently  a  half-mis 
chievous  impulse,  the  prima  donna  would  invite  him 
to  a  dinner  party  at  her  house  that  night? 

Of  course  he  had  accepted.  Really  there  had  been 
nothing  to  prevent  his  doing  so,  and  an  opportunity 
to  know  Rita  Coventry  did  not  present  itself  every 
day.  Besides,  there  were  her  prints — she  had  prom 
ised  to  show  him  some  Hokusais,  Utamaros,  and  Toy- 
okunis.  Even  Alice,  in  whom  he  had  inculcated  a 
certain  interest  in  Japanese  prints,  was  aware  that 
he  was  particularly  fond  of  the  works  of  those  artists. 
Surely,  under  the  circumstances,  she  could  spare  him.- 

For  more  than  ten  years  he  had  admired  Coventry, 
knowing  her  only  through  the  press,  through  gossip, 
through  her  voice,  and  through  his  opera  glasses.  At 
the  time  of  her  sensational  debut  in  Paris  he  had 
heard  her  sing  "Circe"  at  the  Opera  Comique,  and 
one  day  in  the  same  season  had  seen  her  lunching  at 
.Larue's.  She  had  eaten  heartily,  laughed  heartily, 
gestured  with  her  hands,  arms,  and  shoulders.  That 
was  as  near  as  he  had  ever  been  to  her  until  this  after 
noon.  The  elderly  man  who  had  sat  across  from  her 
at  the  table  was  manifestly  not  the  king  with  whom 
her  name  was  linked  by  gossip.  It  was  her  father,  so 
his  waiter  had  informed  him.  The  story  was  that  her 
father  had  been  a  postman  in  Rochester,  New  York. 

Two  or  three  years  later,  after  she  had  captured 
London,  Parrish  heard  her  there  in  "Tosca,"  "La 
Boheme"  and  "Madame  Butterfly,"  and  since  she 
had  left  Covent  Garden  and  become  the  adored  of 


6  RITA  COVENTRY 

New  York  operagoers  he  had  heard  her  in  many 
parts.  Season  after  season  he  had  listened  and  ob 
served  without  detecting  any  change  in  her  save  that 
her  figure,  displayed  in  certain  of  her  roles  with  such 
striking  generosity,  had  with  the  passing  years  be 
come  if  possible  more  perfect. 

She  had  been  dressed  this  afternoon  as  one  felt  a 
beautiful  opera  singer  ought  to  dress.  Her  costume 
was  utterly  unlike  that  of  other  fashionable  women  ; 
she  was,  so  to  say,  elegantly  noticeable.  The  gown 
of  gray  cloth  with  black  braid  in  unexpected  places, 
and  a  skirt  rather  short,  somehow  looked  Russian, 
though  perhaps  that  suggestion  was  rather  the  effect 
of  her  dark  and  lustrous  furs;  her  rather  small  black 
hat  had  a  hedge  of  black  feathers  depending  from 
the  brim  in  such  a  way  as  partially  to  conceal  the 
eyes — but  only  partially.  Glimpsing  them  through 
the  fringe  of  feathers  as  through  heavy  lace,  he  had 
been  conscious  of  an  impulse  to  bend  over  and  look 
directly  at  them.  But  that  had  not  been  necessary, 
for  presently  she  had  thrown  back  her  head  and  let 
him  see  her  eyes.  That  was  when  she  invited  him 
to  dinner.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  an  agreeable 
vibration  was  set  going  between  them  when  their 
eyes  met,  and  he  even  fancied  he  detected  a  little 
note  of  challenge  in  her  look  as  she  gave  the  invita 
tion — something  dashing,  like  the  gesture  of  a  cava 
lier  flinging  a  gauntlet. 

This  pleasant  and  stimulating  picture  in  his  mind 
was  dispersed  abruptly  by  the  striking  of  the  grand- 


RITA  COVENTRY  7 

father's  clock.  Five.  His  car  would  be  waiting, 
and  by  going  at  once  to  Alice's  he  could  spend  two 
hours  with  her  before  coming  home  to  dress  for 
dinner.  That  would  not  satisfy  her,  but  it  ought  to 
help  a  little. 

Descending  in  the  elevator  he  began  to  think  of 
the  explanation  he  would  make.  She  would  not  re 
proach  him — there  was  nothing  of  that  in  their 
relationship — but  she  would  feel  hurt,  and  though 
pride  would  make  her  try  to  conceal  her  feelings, 
she  was  too  artless  to  be  able  to  conceal  them — es 
pecially  from  him.  How  he  knew  her!  And  all  in 
less  than  two  years. 

Of  course  she  was  sensitive.  Very  likely  she  was 
becoming  more  so.  That  was  not  unnatural.  To 
a  man  an  attachment  such  as  theirs,  running  along  as 
theirs  had  run  along,  pleasantly  but  without  a  defi 
nite  objective,  was  an  agreeable  thing.  It  gave  him 
a  deep  interest  without  too  much  responsibility. 
But  to  a  woman,  however  much  she  might  at  first 
endeavour  to  deceive  herself  into  a  belief  in  equality 
between  the  sexes,  such  a  relationship  could  not 
bring  permanent  contentment.  In  the  beginning  he 
had  tried  to  point  that  out  to  her;  but  she  had  shown 
a  headlong  strain,  very  strange,  he  thought,  in  one 
of  her  temperament,  and  had  professed  herself  satis 
fied  with  things  as  they  were.  Thenceonward  they 
had  drifted. 

He  had  tried  always  to  be  considerate.  Had  he 
not,  for  example,  written  her  twice  from  Chicago 


8  RITA  COVENTRY 

during  the  past  week,  busy  though  he  had  been 
Little  attentions  of  that  kind  pleased  her  so.  Whe 
at  home  he  telephoned  her  every  morning.  Ofte 
he  sent  her  flowers.  For  her  birthday  last  year  h 
had  given  her  a  handsome  lamp,  and  at  Christma 
a  Chinese  rug  for  the  living  room  of  her  apartmem 
She  had  been  twenty-six  when  he  first  met  her,  an 
in  May  she  would  be  twenty-eight.  Already  h 
had  looked  at  flexible  linked  bracelets  of  platinun 
set  with  square  diamonds,  chic  and  costly — an 
with  stocks  gone  absolutely  to  the  devil,  too! 

"Park  Avenue,"  he  said  to  his  chauffeur  as  he  gc 
into  his  car. 

Then,  suddenly,  for  the  first  time,  his  mind  fc 
cused  sharply  on  the  fact  that  somehow  it  had  com 
to  be  understood  between  his  chauffeur  and  himse 
that  Park  Avenue  meant  Alice's  address.  Habil 
He  had  become  a  habit  with  Alice  and  she  a  habi 
with  him.  It  was  habit  that  made  her  expect  t 
dine  with  him  to-night.  When  he  had  been  away  h 
always  took  her  out  to  dinner  on  the  night  of  his  re 
turn.  Moreover,  they  dined  together  three  or  foil 
times  a  week,  now  at  a  restaurant,  now  at  her  aparl 
ment,  occasionally  at  his.  On  Thursdays  and  Sur 
days  he  almost  always  took  her  to  a  restaurant,  b( 
cause  her  maid  was  out  on  those  evenings — and  th: 
was  Thursday. 

Their  habits  were  so  fixed  that  others  understoo 
them;  the  elevator  men  in  the  building  in  which  sh 
lived,  for  instance.  Parrish  knew  them  as  well  a 


RITA  COVENTRY  9 

he  knew  those  in  his  own  building.  He  even  tipped 
them.  They  never  announced  him  by  telephone  but 
took  him  right  up  to  Alice's  floor;  nor  had  he  to 
mention  the  number  of  the  floor;  all  that  was  under 
stood.  Also,  it  was  understood  that  one  long  and  two 
short  pressures  on  the  doorbell  button  was  his  ring. 
Alice's  maid,  Otillia,  did  not  answer  the  doorbell 
when  she  heard  that  ring,  for  it  was  understood  that 
Alice  herself  liked  to  let  him  in.  Parrish  thought 
well  of  Otillia,  though  he  sometimes  found  himself 
wishing  she  would  treat  him  more  as  a  caller  and  less 
as  a  member  of  the  household. 

As  his  car  stopped  before  the  tall  apartment  build 
ing  where  Alice  lived,  Parrish  was  aware  of  a  feeling 
of  rebellion  against  all  this  mass  of  understanding. 

"  You've  been  away,  sir,"  said  big  Henry,  the  door 
man. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Parrish  replied,  and  hastened  across 
the  sidewalk. 

"Back  again,  Mr.  Parrish?"  said  Michael,  the 
elevator  man.  And  as  the  car  ascended,  "  Unusually 
fine  weather  we're  having  for  this  time  of  year." 

"Yes,  fine." 

Parrish  was  wishing  that  he  knew  some  other  ten 
ant  of  the  building  in  order  that  he  might  astonish 
Michael  by  getting  off  at  any  floor  other  than  the 
seventh — the  same  old  seventh. 

At  Alice's  door  he  allowed  his  feeling  of  perversity 
to  triumph.  He  pressed  the  button  only  once.  But 
even  so  it  was  Alice,  not  Otillia,  who  answered. 


CHAPTER  II 

SHE  was  tall,  deep  bosomed,  golden  haired, 
with  a  delicate  skin  which,  when  she  flushed, 
as  she  did  now  on  seeing  him,  made  him  think 
of  an  evening  gown  she  sometimes  wore — a  gown  in 
which  a  glow  of  cerise  showed  faintly  through  a  sheer, 
fine  drapery  of  creamy  satin. 

"Dick!" 

"Hello,  Alice."     He  entered  the  little  hall. 

"Why,  you  rang  only  once!" 

Then,  after  a  moment,  as  he  drew  away  from  her 
and  slipped  out  of  his  overcoat  Otillia  appeared. 

"Oh,  it's  Mr.  Parrish!"  she  exclaimed,  surprised 
and  a  little  confused. 

"You  didn't  recognize  my  ring,  eh?"  He  was 
smiling. 

"No,  sir."    She  turned  back  toward  the  kitchen. 

"There's  one  thing  Otillia  doesn't  understand,  at 
any  rate,"  he  thought  to  himself  with  a  certain  satis 
faction. 

After  taking  his  coat  and  hat  and  hanging  them  in 
a  closet  Alice  linked  arms  with  him  and  led  him  to 
the  living  room. 

"Why  didn't  you  ring  the  way  you  always  do?" 
she  asked.  "I  thought  it  must  be  you,  but  I " 

10 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,i 

"Because  it's  spring,"  he  answered. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Life  starts  anew  in  the  spring.  Everything  is 
new,  even  the  way  I  ring  your  bell." 

"Silly!"  She  patted  his  cheek.  He  sat  down  in  an 
upholstered  chair — "his"  chair — and  she  perched  upon 
the  arm.  "Did  you  think  of  me  while  you  were 
away?"  she  asked. 

"Didn't  I  write  you  twice?     Didn't  I  wire?" 

"Yes,  you  were  a  good  boy."  She  stroked  back 
a  lock  of  his  hair.  "  But  did  you  think  of  me  often?" 

"Of  course,  of  course."  Then  as  though  to  dis 
miss  the  topic  he  asked,  "What  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself?" 

"  I'm  still  looking  for  something  to  do  in  my  spare 
time,"  she  said. 

"You  haven't  found  anything?"  It  was  as  much 
a  statement  as  a  question. 

"Nothing  I  liked.  You  don't  take  much  stock  in 
my  job  hunting,  do  you,  Dick?" 

"  If  you  needed  a  job  you'd  get  one." 

"Yes.  But  as  money  isn't  particularly  a  con 
sideration,  don't  you  think  I  ought  to  wait  for  some 
thing  I'd  like?" 

"I  think  you'd  be  happier  with  something  to  do." 

"Just  anything?" 

"Perhaps  not,  but— 

"Because,"  she  went  on,  "I  did  have  a  job  one 
day.  Clara  and  I  went  around  and  acted  in  a 
movie." 


12  RITA  COVENTRY 

"You  did?    What  put  that  in  your  head?" 

"Clara  knew  a  girl  who  did  it.  We  thought  it 
wouldn't  hurt  to  try  it.  They  used  us  in  crowd 
scenes.  It  was  rather  fun,  just  for  once;  but  the 
lights  are  hard  on  your  eyes,  and  they  keep  you  wait 
ing  around  doing  nothing  for  hours  at  a  time,  and 
some  of  the  people  are  terribly  queer.  I  shouldn't 
like  the  movies." 

"  I  understood  when  I  went  away  that  you  were 
thinking  of  taking  up  dress  designing." 

"I  asked  Madame  Kay  about  it.  She  says  the 
field  is  overcrowded.  Anyway,  I  don't  believe  I 
sketch  well  enough." 

"Have  you  thought  of  anything  else?" 

"Yes.  I'd  like  to  work  with  children.  It's  the 
one  thing  I  imagine  I  have  a  little  gift  for.  I  went 
around  to  a  creche  and  inquired,  but  they  only 
needed  an  office  worker;  they  didn't  need  any  help 
with  the  children." 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  find  anything  you  do  care 
for,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  as  though  he  did  not 
believe  she  would. 

"  I  care  for  you." 

"I  know;  but  caring  for  someone  isn't  enough  to 
fill  a  person's  life — that's  just  the  point." 

"Not  a  man's,  perhaps,"  she  answered. 

He  saw  his  opportunity. 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  it's  not  good  for  you  to  have 
no  outside  interest.  It's  not  fair  to  yourself.  We 
can't  be  together  every  evening,  even  when  I  am  in 


RITA  COVENTRY  13 

New  York.  Take  this  evening,  for  instance.  When 
I  telephoned  this  morning  I  was  expecting  to  take 
you  out  to  dinner,  but  as  things  have  turned  out  1 
shan't  be  able  to." 

Her  eyes,  which  had  been  on  him,  turned  to  the  rug. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  drooping. 

"So  am  I.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  I  have  to 
dine  with  some  friends  of  Larry  Merrick's.  I  didn't 
know  until  this  afternoon.  It's  a  dinner  party.  If 
I  didn't  go  it  would  throw  things  all  out  of  joint. 
They  have  some  fine  Japanese  prints  they've  been 
wanting  me  to  see." 

"  I  suppose  you  couldn't  see  them  any  other  time?" 
Still  she  was  looking  wistfully  down. 

"Not  very  well.     They're  going  away." 

"Maybe  you'll  be  able  to  come  in  later  in  the 
evening." 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  I'm  invited  for  eight;  that  means 
we  won't  be  at  table  until  eight-thirty  or  so.  And 
afterwards  there'll  be  the  prints  to  see.  I  don't  ex 
pect  to  get  away  much  before  midnight.  For  heaven's 
sake,  Alice,  don't  look  like  that!  You  make  me  feel 
like  a  brute." 

"I'm  sorry.  You're  anything  but  a  brute.  I 
couldn't  help  being  disappointed." 

"  But  I  ought  to  be  able  to  go  out  to  dinner  and 
look  at  some  prints  without  your  making  a  tragedy 
of  it."  There  was  a  slight  note  of  irritation  in  his 
tone. 

"I  know  it.     It  was  just  for  a  minute.     You've 


i4  RITA  COVENTRY 

been  away,  and  I  was  expecting—  But  I'm  all 
over  it  now."  She  smiled  as  though  to  offer  proof. 
"It  was  selfish  of  me,  and  you're  never  selfish  with 
me.  I  want  you  to  go  to-night  and  have  a  fine  time." 

"That's  a  dear  girl,"  he  approved.  Then  he 
added,  "But  don't  say  I'm  unselfish." 

"  But  you  are.  You've  always  done  everything  I 
wanted." 

"Not  always." 

"Yes,  you  have." 

"What  about  Blenkinswood?"  he  reminded  her. 
Somehow  it  salved  his  conscience  to  remind  her  of 
what  he  had  refused  her  in  the  past. 

"That's  different,"  she  said.  "You  had  your 
point  of  view  about  it  and  I  had  mine,  but  it  was  for 
you  to  decide." 

Becoming  interested  in  the  topic  itself  he  forgot  his 
reason  for  having  brought  it  up. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "now  that  you  look  back,  don't 
you  see  that  I  was  right?" 

"  I  see  that  it  was  for  you  to  decide,"  she  repeated, 
evading  a  direct  answer. 

"Yes;  but  be  honest  with  yourself — wasn't  I 
right?" 

"I've  never  been  able  to  see,"  she  said  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  "why  you  couldn't  have  taken 
me  to  Blenkinswood  if  you'd  really  wanted  to." 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  thought  you  had 
stopped  talking  about  it  because  you'd  come  around 
to  my  point  of  view." 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,5 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  stopped  because  I  saw  it 
was  annoying  you  to  hear  what  I  thought.  It's  your 
place.  If  you  want  to  forget  about  it " 

"And  I  do,"  he  put  in  with  a  rueful  little  chuckle. 

He  did  want  to  forget  about  Blenkinswood.  That 
old  house  in  Virginia  weighed  upon  his  conscience 
like  a  neglected  poor  relation.  With  its  mortgaged 
acres  it  had  come  to  him  as  an  inheritance — a  tumble 
down  ancestral  home,  symbolizing  the  decay  of  the 
proud  colonial  family  whose  name  his  mother  as  a 
maiden  had  been  the  last  to  bear.  He  had  paid  off 
the  mortgage,  spent  some  money  in  putting  the 
place  in  better  condition,  brought  to  New  York  the 
portraits,  the  mahogany,  and  such  old  silverware  as 
the  Yankee  soldiers  had  not  found,  and  installed  a 
farmer  to  run  the  plantation  on  shares. 

The  farm  had  never  paid.  For  a  dozen  years  he 
had  sent  annually  a  check  to  cover  repairs  and 
replenishments,  yet  each  year  there  was  a  deficit. 
In  all  that  time  he  had  gone  down  there  but  once, 
and  the  excursion  had  proved  depressing — a  drive 
of  eleven  miles  through  a  sea  of  mud  called  by  cour 
tesy  a  road,  and  at  the  end  the  spectacle  of  a  house 
falling  to  pieces,  surrounded  by  broken  fences,  neg 
lected  box  trees,  and  undernourished  cattle  grazing 
amongst  weeds  where  gardens  used  to  bloom. 

Year  after  year  he  told  himself  that  something 
must  be  done  about  Blenkinswood,  but  the  mental 
whisper  grew  fainter  and  fainter  with  time.  He 
knew  that  the  farmer  and  his  family  were  a  shiftless 


16  RITA  COVENTRY 

if  not  dishonest  lot  who  ought  to  be  turned  out ;  yet 
the  thought  of  going  there  again,  of  seeing  the  cheap 
oak  furniture  in  the  old  panelled  drawing  room  and 
the  horrid  little  ornaments  on  the  porphyry  mantel 
piece  which  Lafayette  had  sent  from  France  as  a 
gift  to  that  several-times-great-grandfather  of  his 
who  had  built  Blenkinswood,  of  smelling  cabbage 
cooking,  and  hearing  the  man's  maundering  excuses 
for  the  years  of  failure  was  so  unpleasant  that  he 
continued  to  postpone  the  duty. 

Alice  had  become  interested  in  Blenkinswood  soon 
after  becoming  interested  in  him.  She  had  devel 
oped  what  he  regarded  as  a  mania  about  the  place, 
and  for  a  time  had  spoken  to  him  of  what  he  ought 
to  do  about  it  in  a  voice  which  was  like  the  insistent 
voice  of  conscience. 

"You  ought  to  take  care  of  it,"  she  would  say. 
"You  ought  to  be  proud  of  it.  Not  everybody  has 
an  ancestral  home.  Not  everybody  comes  from  an 
aristocratic  old  family.  You  don't  appreciate  what 
it  means.  Take  me,  for  instance.  My  father  built 
the  house  where  I  was  born,  in  Cleveland.  My 
grandfather  came  out  there  from  Connecticut  when 
he  was  a  young  man.  His  father  was  just  a  plain 
farmer." 

"That's  all  the  Blenkins  were,"  he  would  reply. 
"Planters  and  farmers  are  the  same  thing." 

Then  he  would  tell  her  lightly  that  ancestry 
was  largely  a  question  of  bookkeeping;  that  everyone 
had  the  same  number  of  grandfathers;  and  that 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,7 

whereas  his  aristocratic  forbears  had  handed  down 
to  him  a  plantation  covered  with  weeds  and  mort 
gages,  her  father,  who  had  been  a  manufacturer,  had 
left  her  and  her  sister  well  provided  for.  And  he 
would  tell  her  tales  of  his  ancestors;  stories  of  bouts 
of  drinking  over  cards,  duels  and  scandals. 

"They  raised  tobacco  and  slaves  and  Democrats 
and  hell,"  he  would  say.  "Down  in  that  part  of 
the  country  they  still  think  and  talk  so  much  about 
family  that  they  have  no  time  left  to  weed  the  garden. 
They're  lovable  people,  but  I  thank  the  Lord  I  had 
sense  enough  to  get  out  and  come  to  New  York  when 
I  was  a  youngster.  I'm  prouder  of  my  seat  on  the 
Exchange  than  I  would  be  of  twenty  Blenkinswoods." 

At  first  Alice  had  urged  him  only  to  put  Blenkins- 
wood  in  repair  and  get  a  capable  farmer  to  run  it, 
but  presently  she  began  to  want  to  see  the  old 
plantation  herself.  This  also  had  become  a  fixed 
idea  with  her;  nor  had  he  been  able  to  shake  it  with 
his  descriptions  of  the  wretched  roads  and  the  dilapi 
dation. 

"Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  be  interested  in 
your  family?"  she  would  demand.  "I'll  never  get 
over  wanting  to  see  the  place  where  they  lived." 

That,  in  effect,  was  her  declaration  now,  uttered 
with  a  curious  gentle  tenacity. 

"  But,  you  have  seen  all  of  it  that's  worth  seeing," 
he  told  her.  "You've  seen  the  best  of  the  portraits 
and  furniture  from  Blenkinswood  in  my  apartment. 
You'd  be  awfully  disappointed  in  the  place  itself." 


i8  RITA  COVENTRY 

She  shook  her  head. 

"And  I've  told  you  a  dozen  times  why  I  can't 
take  you  there.  It  would  make  talk." 

"  It  wouldn't  if  I  were  your  sister  or  your  cousin." 

"But  you  aren't." 

"Who'd  know  that?" 

His  laugh  was  impatient. 

"The  whole  country  would  know  it  inside  of  six 
hours.  If  a  man  comes  from  Virginia  the  people 
down  there  know  more  about  his  family  than  he 
knows  himself.  If  I  were  to  take  you  it  would  make 
a  scandal." 

"It  would  be  my  risk,  wouldn't  it?" 

He  gazed  at  her,  amazed. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "you  fairly  paralyze  me 
when  you  say  a  thing  like  that !  It's  so  unlike  you." 

"  If  a  woman  has  a  clear  conscience — 

He  interrupted. 

"In  this  world  a  clear  conscience  isn't  sufficient. 
You've  got  to  think  how  things  look." 

"Well,  at  the  worst,  how  would  they  look? 
They'd  look  as  if  I  loved  you.  Don't  I?  I'm 
proud  of  loving  you!  I'm  proud  of  the  kind  of  love 
it  is.  I  have  nothing  to  conceal.  Don't  you  suppose 
a  good  many  people  who  know  us  are  able  to  see  that 
I  love  you?  Clara  knows.  I've  told  her." 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?" 

"She's  the  best  girl  friend  I  have  in  New  York," 
Alice  answered.  "She  knew  it  anyhow,  and  I 
wanted  her  to  see  how  it  was." 


RITA  COVENTRY  19 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"That  I  was  heading  for  unhappiness." 

"Well,"  he  said  defensively,  "I  never  tried  to 
conceal  that  possibility,  did  I?" 

"That's  what  I  told  her.  I  wanted  her  to  see  the 
beauty  of  an  absolutely  honest  friendship  like  ours. 
I  've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life.  You  know  that. 
It's  worth  any  risk.  I  wanted  her  to  see  how  fine  it 
was — my  never  demanding  anything  of  you;  want 
ing  only  as  much  as  you  are  glad  to  give;  our  com 
plete  independence;  your  having  promised  to  tell  me 
frankly  if  you  ever  found  yourself  losing  interest  in 
me." 

"What  did  Clara  say  to  all  that?" 

"She  said  you  might  promise,  but  that  you 
wouldn't  tell  me  when  it  came  to  the  point." 

"Why  did  she  think  I  wouldn't?"  he  asked,  sur 
prised. 

"She  says  men  don't  do  things  that  way."  Poor 
Clara !  It's  not  unnatural  that  she  should  be  cynical 
about  men  after  her  experience." 

"Just  what  was  her  experience,  do  you  know?" 

"Her  husband  was  an  absolute  good-for-nothing." 

"  But  how  do  you  know?" 

"She's  told  me  all  about  it." 

"Oh."     He  smiled  faintly. 

"That's  another  reason  I  wanted  to  tell  her  about 
you.  She  has  her  Hfe  to  make  over  again,  and  it': 
not  good  for  her  to  be  so  cynical.  She  mustn't  go 
so  much  by  that  one  bitter  experience,  judging  all 


20  RITA  COVENTRY 

men  by  one.     She  must  learn  that  some  men  aren't 
that  way." 

He  gave  a  grim  little  chuckle. 

"  I  guess  you  didn't  make  much  headway  with 
her,  holding  me  up  as  an  example." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Clara  doesn't  approve  of  me." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  say  that." 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.     "I'm  not  complaining." 

This  difference  over  Clara  was  an  old  though  not 
a  hard-fought  difference  between  them.  He  did  not 
care  to  fight  it  hard,  first  because  Clara  was  a  wo 
man,  and  second  because  so  long  as  he  was  not 
obliged  to  see  much  of  her,  he  had  no  great  objections 
to  Alice's  friendship  with  her. 

It  was  a  friendship  antedating  his  own  friendship 
with  Alice.  The  two  girls,  who  were  of  about  the 
same  age,  had  met  during  the  war  in  a  Cleveland 
hospital  where  they  were  in  training  as  nurses'  aids. 
Before  they  had  completed  their  courses  the  war 
had  come  to  an  end.  All  this  Parrish  knew  by  hear 
say.  As  for  him,  the  close  of  the  war  had  found  him 
doing  relief  work  in  Poland,  and  it  was  not  until 
some  months  after  his  return  that  he  met  Alice,  who 
was  paying  a  visit  in  New  York. 

He  had  first  seen  her  at  a  Sunday-evening  party 
given  by  some  people  neither  of  them  knew  well- 
one  of  those  large,  vague  parties  the  object  of  which 
seems  to  be  to  assemble  and  feed  flocks  of  people  who 
have  never  met  before,  and  who,  having  eaten  and 


RITA  COVENTRY  21 

participated  in  the  vocal  din,  depart  upon  their 
various  ways  through  the  city,  never  perhaps  to 
meet  again. 

Sometimes,  however,  they  do  meet  again.  Par- 
rish  had  asked  to  be  presented  to  Alice,  had  driven 
her  home  after  the  party,  and  before  leaving  her  at 
her  door  had  arranged  to  have  her  as  his  guest  for 
dinner  and  the  theatre  a  few  nights  later.  Though 
her  beauty  had  been  the  first  thing  to  attract  him  he 
had  found  himself  charmed,  as  they  fell  into  talk,  by 
her  genuineness.  Moreover,  there  was  something 
fascinating  about  the  expression  of  her  mouth.  At 
first  you  kept  thinking  she  was  just  about  to  smile, 
but  you  presently  discovered  that  this  illusion  re 
sulted  from  the  sweet  aspect  of  her  mouth  in  repose. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  he  had  seen  her  often.  The 
time  came  when  according  to  her  original  plan  she 
should  return  to  Cleveland,  where  she  lived  with 
her  married  sister;  but  she  did  not  go.  By  that  time 
he  had  not  wanted  her  to  go  and,  albeit  with  a  certain 
air  of  playful  camaraderie,  had  told  her  so.  An 
orphan,  financially  independent,  she  was  able  to  do 
as  she  pleased,  and  now  it  pleased  her  most  to  do  as 
he  pleased.  She  put  of?  her  departure  first  from  day 
to  day,  then  from  week  to  week,  moving  from  the 
house  where  she  had  visited  to  a  hotel  and  later  to 
this  pleasant  little  apartment,  which  she  had  rented 
furnished  for  a  few  months. 

Before  those  months  were  ended  a  frankly  affec 
tionate  relationship  had  been  established  between 


22  RITA  COVENTRY 

them.  When  her  first  short  lease  on  the  apartment 
was  expiring  she  renewed  it,  this  time  for  a  year,  and 
now  another  year  was  half  gone. 

It  was  shortly  after  Alice  had  first  taken  the  apart 
ment  that  Clara  put  in  an  appearance  in  New  York. 
She  came  at  once  to  Alice's  with  the  understanding 
that  she  was  to  remain  there  for  a  few  days  while 
seeking  a  boarding  place.  The  apartment  had  but 
two  bedrooms,  one  of  which  was  occupied  by  Otillia, 
and  with  these  facts  to  work  from  Parrish  had  no 
difficulty  in  deducing  that  from  the  time  of  Clara's 
advent  the  living-room  couch  must  needs  be  pressed 
into  service  as  a  bed. 

Because  of  Alice's  enthusiasm  for  her  friend  he 
had  been  disposed  at  first  to  like  her  and  had  tried 
during  the  first  week  of  her  stay  to  make  things 
pleasant  for  her,  but  when  she  had  been  there  two 
weeks,  showing  no  sign  of  preparation  to  leave,  he 
began  to  wonder  just  how  long  it  ought  to  take  to 
find  a  boarding  place,  and  just  how  long  a  comfort- 
loving  girl  like  Clara  would  be  content  to  spend  her 
nights  upon  a  couch.  Then  he  had  discovered 
through  a  chance  remark  dropped  by  Clara  herself 
that  it  was  not  she,  but  Alice,  who  was  sleeping  on  the 
couch,  which  meant  of  course  that  Clara  was  in 
possession  of  the  bedroom  and  the  bed.  It  was 
then  that  he  first  began  to  notice  in  Clara's  pink 
prettiness,  particularly  about  the  nose  and  eyes,  the 
hint  of  an  expression  slightly  porcine. 

Thenceforward,  when  he  took  Alice  out,  he  had 


RITA  COVENTRY  23 

ceased  to  include  her  visitor,  but  of  course  Alice 
sometimes  felt  she  should  not  go,  and  urged  him 
to  come,  instead,  to  her  apartment.  However, 
Clara's  friends  were  generally  to  be  found  there  in 
the  evenings — a  heterogeneous  collection  ranging 
from  sleek  youths  intent  on  taking  the  two  girls  out 
to  jazz  restaurants  where  they  could  dance,  to  Sam 
Burke  (a  broker  of  a  type  Parrish  did  not  approve), 
and  his  effulgent,  jewel-incrusted,  paradise-plume- 
sprouting  wife. 

After  a  few  evenings  with  Clara's  friends,  Parrish 
had  begun  to  stay  away  from  the  apartment,  a  fact 
that  seemed  to  disturb  Alice  far  more  than  it  had 
disturbed  her  to  sleep  upon  the  couch,  and  there 
after  the  situation  did  not  long  endure.  Precisely 
how  it  came  to  be  terminated  he  was  never  certain. 
He  only  knew  that  after  the  third  week  of  her  visit, 
Clara  had  moved  to  a  boarding  house  round  the 
corner. 

There  she  had  ever  since  resided,  and  though  she 
continued  to  be  with  Alice  a  great  deal,  lunching 
with  her  either  at  home  or  at  a  restaurant  several 
times  a  week,  spending  many  of  her  daytime  hours 
at  the  apartment,  and  even  coming  there  to  do  her 
dressmaking,  she  now  avoided,  as  though  by  tacit 
understanding,  the  hours  at  which  he  was  likely  to 
come  in. 

Clara's  chief  source  of  revenue,  he  had  been  given 
to  understand,  was  a  small  alimony,  though  some 
thing  was  said  also  of  her  writing  a  weekly  New  York 


24  RITA  COVENTRY 

fashion  letter  to  several  Middle  Western  news 
papers.  It  was  to  these  fashion  letters  that  Clara 
referred  when,  as  often  happened,  she  spoke  of  "my 
work."  He  had  been  curious  to  know  what  sort  of 
writing  she  could  do,  and  had  several  times  asked 
Alice  to  get  him  copies  of  some  of  her  friend's  journal 
istic  efforts;  but  these  had  never  been  produced. 
Alice  herself  had  never  been  permitted  to  see  them, 
she  told  him. 

"Dick,"  said  Alice  presently,  "Clara  is  wrong 
about  that,  isn't  she?  You  would  tell  me,  wouldn't 
you,  if  you  found  yourself  losing  interest  in  me? 
You  promised,  remember." 

Why,  he  wondered,  were  her  thoughts  running  on 
that  theme  to-day? 

"Did  I  ever  break  a  promise  to  you?" 

"No;  but " 

"Well,  then,  what's  the  use  in  discussing  such  a 
thing?" 

"You  understand  I  wouldn't  blame  you  if  you  did 
lose  interest.  We  can't  control  those  things.  They 
just  happen.  All  I  ask  is  to  be  told.  It  would  be 
so  humiliating  to  feel  that  you  were " 

"What  on  earth  is  all  this  about?"  he  demanded 
impatiently. 

"Nothing.  But  men  do  tire  of  women — we  all 
know  that.  You  tired  of  Josephine.  You  told  me 
so  yourself." 

"Josephine!"  he  exclaimed  almost  angrily,  plac- 


RITA  COVENTRY  25 

ing  one  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  as  if  about  to 
rise.  "What  has  Josephine  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"You  were  tremendously  interested  in  her  at 
first;  but  in  three  years  you— 

This  time  he  did  rise. 

"Look  here!"  he  said.  "I  wish  you'd  kindly 
drop  that  subject.  Josephine  wasn't—  Well,  I 
prefer  not  to  talk  about  it." 

"All  right,  dear,  so  long  as  you  understand  that 
you're  absolutely  free.  There  are  no  strings  to  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you,  Dick?" 

She  spoke  with  intensity,  gazing  into  his  face,  and 
this  eager  gravity  of  hers  surprised  him.  It  always 
surprised  him.  He  had  a  theory  that  blondes  were 
not  intense. 

"Free?"  he  repeated.  "Why,  of  course!  We're 
both  free.  That's  understood." 

He  tried  to  make  his  tone  convincing  and  if  he 
failed  she  did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  It  was  their 
established  creed,  and  no  one  notices  the  tone  in 
which  an  established  creed  is  pattered  off;  yet  now 
he  was  scrutinizing  this  creed.  How  free  was  he? 
At  the  moment  he  felt  painfully  like  a  husband,  for 
had  he  been  actually  her  husband  his  sense  of  re 
sponsibility  to  her  could  not  have  been  much  greater. 
She  depended  upon  him  so. 

Strange  how  that  sense  of  responsibility  had 
grown  upon  him  almost  unnoticed.  It  was  the  very 
thing  he  had  intended  to  avoid.  From  the  time  when 
he  and  Alice  had  begun  to  be  a  great  deal  with  each 


26  RITA  COVENTRY 

other  he  had  been  careful  to  make  clear  to  her  his 
attitude  toward  life.  He  had  told  her  definitely, 
although  in  a  manner  meant  to  suggest  casualness, 
that  he  intended  always  to  remain  a  bachelor,  and 
so,  possessed  of  this  knowledge,  she  was  in  position 
to  order  matters  as  she  might  see  fit. 

But  he  had  not  stopped  with  that.  Now  and 
then,  after  their  relationship  had  become  affection 
ate,  he  had  harked  back  to  the  topic,  pointing  out 
to  her,  with  an  air  of  impersonality  which  in  the 
circumstances  he  considered  somewhat  creditable, 
that  she  was  young  and  beautiful,  with  domestic 
tastes  including  a  great  love  for  children,  and  that 
she  ought  to  marry  and  have  a  home  and  family  of 
her  own;  and  he  had  even  intimated  that,  delightful 
though  the  relationship  was  to  him,  he  thought  it 
unfair  to  her,  since  it  could  lead  to  nothing,  and 
since  other  men,  knowing  of  her  interest  in  him,  or 
sensing  it,  would  drift  away. 

"What  do  I  care!"  she  said. 

Since  then  his  prophecy  had  been  fulfilled.  Other 
men  she  had  known  had  drifted  away;  they  did  not 
come  here  now.  Once,  more  recently,  he  had  spoken 
of  that,  finding  his  opportunity  in  the  disappearance 
from  her  living  room  of  all  masculine  photographs. 

"What's  the  use  of  keeping  their  pictures  around?" 
she  had  returned  with  a  little  laugh.  "They'll 
never  know  the  difference." 

"You  don't  see  any  of  them  any  more?" 

"No — thank  goodness!"    Then  as  though  by  way 


RITA  COVENTRY  27 

of  explanation  she  had  come  and  kissed  him,  saying, 
"I  love  you." 

Poor  Alice!  She  did  love  him.  He  had  ample 
proof  of  that.  Now  he  found  himself  wishing  that 
she  did  not  love  him  quite  so  much.  It  was  less 
his  love  for  her  than  hers  for  him  that  bound  him  to 
her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  this 
evening?"  he  asked  when,  at  seven,  he  got  up  to  go. 

"I  think  I'll  telephone  to  Clara  and  see  if  she 
can't  come  over.  We  might  go  to  a  movie  or  some 
thing."  She  followed  him  toward  the  hall  door. 
"Have  a  good  time,  dear,  won't  you,  and  forgive  me 
for  having  been  silly?" 

"Nonsense.     There's  nothing  to  forgive." 

"Yes,"  she  insisted,  "I  can't  always  hide  my  feel 
ings  as  I  ought  to.  It's  because  I  love  you  so." 

"You're  a  dear  girl." 

"Are  you  going  to  think  of  me  after  you  go?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

And  it  was  true.  He  did  think  of  her.  He 
thought  of  her  as  he  descended  in  the  elevator,  and 
as  he  drove  home,  and  as  he  dressed,  and  as  he  went 
to  Rita  Coventry's.  He  thought  how  good  she  was, 
how  unselfish,  how  honest,  how  devoted,  and  the 
thought  of  her  merits  weighed  upon  him.  If  only 
she  were  not  so  fine  and  so  devoted  things  might  be 
easier  just  now! 

Women!     A  good  woman  is  such  a  lovely,  deli- 


28  RITA  COVENTRY 

cate,  lofty-minded  thing;  but  when  she  falls  in  love, 
she  falls  headlong,  and  doesn't  count  costs.  With  a 
man  it  is  different.  He  may  be  in  love,  but  even  so 
he  can't  think  constantly  of  love  and  nothing  else. 
He  has  other  interests — and  he  does  like  variety.  No 
matter  how  sincerely  he  may  care  for  a  woman,  he 
doesn't  want  her  draped  lovingly  around  his  neck 
all  the  time.  That  sort  of  devotion  wears  a  man 
out.  That  is  the  trouble  with  women.  Once  in 
love  they  can  think  of  nothing  else.  They  have  no 
outside  interests.  Love  is  their  whole  life. 

Thus  he  thought  as  his  car  carried  him  toward 
Rita  Coventry's  house. 


CHAPTER  III 

HAVING  closed  the  door  behind  Dick,  Alice 
stood  there  with  her  hand  upon  the  knob  un 
til  she  heard  the  elevator  come  up  to  the  hall 
outside  and  descend  again.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
half  expected  him  to  return  for  something. 

With  the  departure  of  the  elevator  she  turned  back 
to  the  living  room,  crossed  to  the  desk  on  which  re 
posed  the  telephone,  and  called  up  Clara  Proctor. 

"Have  you  started  dinner  yet?"  she  asked  her 
friend. 

"No,  I  was  just  going  in." 

"Come  on  over  here  instead.  It's  Otillia's  night 
out,  but  we  can  pick  up  something  for  ourselves." 

"I  thought  you  were  going  out?"  Clara  put  in 
quickly. 

"I  had  expected  to,  but  Dick  has  to  go  some 
where." 

"All  right,  dear,  I'll  be  around  in  a  few  minutes.' 

Alice,  wearing  a  checked  gingham  apron,  let  her 
friend  in  when  she  arrived. 

"I  have  soup  on,"  she  explained,  and  hastened 
back  toward  the  kitchen. 

In  leisurely  fashion  Clara  removed  her  coat  and 
hat,  and  passing  into  the  living  room  paused  before 

29 


30  RITA  COVENTRY 

a  mirror,  giving  a  touch  to  her  blonde  hair;  then 
crossing  to  the  table  she  took  up  a  fashion  magazine 
and  stood  for  a  time  looking  at  it.  Noises  coming 
through  the  open  pantry  door  presently  reminded 
her  that  supper  was  being  made  ready.  Without 
putting  down  the  magazine  she  moved  to  the  dining- 
room  door,  where  she  stopped  and  called  to  Alice. 

"Anything  I  can  do,  dear?" 

"No,  don't  bother.  I'll  have  everything  ready  in 
no  time." 

Clara  returned  slowly  to  the  table,  finished  her 
cursory  inspection  of  the  magazine,  laid  it  down, 
glanced  about  the  room,  and  wandered  slowly  to  the 
writing  desk.  There,  after  surveying  her  friend's 
engagement  pad,  she  took  up  a  letter,  examined  the 
handwriting  and  postmark,  put  it  down  again,  and 
went  into  the  bedroom,  where  she  paused  near  the 
dressing  table,  upon  the  glass  top  of  which  a  number 
of  silver  toilet  articles  were  neatly  arranged.  Also, 
on  the  dressing  table  stood  a  large  photograph  of 
Parrish  in  a  silver  frame. 

Clara  pushed  the  photograph  an  inch  or  two 
nearer  the  edge,  took  up  a  pair  of  manicure  scissors, 
snipped  a  piece  of  cuticle  at  the  corner  of  one  of  her 
thumbnails,  and  after  feeling  the  thumb  to  see  that 
it  was  smooth,  put  down  the  scissors  and  scruti 
nized  her  face  in  the  mirror,  turning  her  head  criti 
cally  from  side  to  side.  What  she  saw  apparently 
satisfied  her,  for  she  now  gave  her  attention,  instead, 
to  one  of  the  dressing-table  drawers,  opening  it  and 


RITA  COVENTRY  3, 

reviewing  its  contents.  After  examining  some  hand 
kerchiefs,  which  she  removed  from  a  silk  case,  she 
took  up  a  pair  of  new  white  gloves  and  looked  them 
over  as  a  critical  purchaser  might  have  done.  Then 
she  drew  forth  a  black  net  veil,  and  with  eyes  again 
turned  toward  the  mirror  held  it  outstretched  be 
fore  her  face.  Having  replaced  the  veil  she  closed 
the  drawer  and  opened  the  other,  finding  in  the 
front  of  it  a  small  bottle  of  perfume  in  a  satin-lined 
box.  She  removed  the  glass  stopple  and  sniffed 
the  perfume  appreciatively,  half  closing  her  eyes, 
then  put  the  bottle  back,  closed  the  drawer,  and  re 
turned  to  the  living  room  just  as  Alice  appeared 
from  the  kitchen  with  a  small  platter  of  cold  chicken 
and  ham  garnished  with  lettuce  leaves. 

"Can't  I  help  carry  things  in?"  suggested  Clara, 
stopping  as  she  spoke. 

"No,  everything's  ready.  You  sit  down.  I'll 
bring  the  soup  directly."  And  Alice  disappeared 
again  through  the  pantry  door. 

Clara  moved  languidly  to  the  dining  room  and 
seated  herself,  and  almost  simultaneously  Alice  re 
appeared  with  two  steaming  cups  of  tomato  bouillon, 
one  of  which  she  placed  before  her  friend. 

"Urn!"  Clara  exclaimed,  sniffing,  as  Alice  stood 
near  her.  "Isn't  that  a  new  scent  you're  using?" 

"Yes.  Do  you  like  it?  I  just  put  on  a  tiny 
touch." 

"I  love  it.     What  is  it?" 

"Fleurde  Fee." 


32  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Awfully  expensive?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  a  present?" 

Alice,  seating  herself,  nodded  across  the  table. 

"Look  out,"  she  warned,  "the  soup's  hot." 

"Dick?"  asked  the  other. 

"No;  Margaret." 

Margaret  was  her  married  sister  in  Cleveland. 

"Oh!"  said  Clara.  Then  she  asked,  "What  do 
you  hear  from  Margaret?" 

Alice  sighed. 

"I'm  worried  about  her,"  she  said.  "She  hasn't 
been  awfully  well.  George's  business  keeps  him 
tied  up,  and  she  won't  go  away  without  him.  What 
she  needs  is  a  change  and  a  rest.  I've  been  trying 
to  get  her  to  come  on  and  visit  me,  but  she  always 
has  some  reason  why  she  can't.  It's  not  only  George 
and  the  housekeeping — it  makes  her  nervous  to 
leave  the  children." 

"She's  like  you,"  Clara  said.  "That's  the  kind 
of  wife  and  mother  you'd  be,  too." 

"  If  I  could  be  as  good  a  wife  and  mother  as  Mar 
garet,"  Alice  returned,  "it  would  make  me  mighty 
happy." 

Clara  smiled. 

"Never  fear,"  said  she,  "you  would.  You'd 
never  consider  yourself  any  more  than  Margaret 
does.  You  don't  now,  you  know;  and  married  you'd 
be  that  much  worse." 

"Worse?"  repeated  Alice,  smiling. 


RITA  COVENTRY  33 

"Yes,  worse.  It  doesn't  pay  for  a  woman  to  be 
unselfish  with  a  man.  Men  don't  appreciate  it. 
They'll  accept  all  a  woman  will  give  them,  and  take 
it  for  granted." 

"You  wouldn't  say  George  didn't  appreciate  Mar 
garet,  surely?" 

"Of  course  I  never  saw  them  very  much  when  I 
was  in  Cleveland,"  Clara  answered,  "but  I  should 
say  he  accepted  her  devotion  pretty — well,  pretty 
calmly.  Not  as  calmly  as  Dick  accepts  yours, 
though." 

"Dick  is  mighty  sweet  to  me,"  Alice  defended. 
"No  man  could  be  more  thoughtful  and  kind.  You 
simply  don't  understand  Dick,  my  dear." 

"I  understand  one  thing,"  Clara  retorted,  "and 
that  is,  if  he's  so  darn  thoughtful  and  kind  I  should 
think  he'd  be  saying  something  about  marrying  you." 

"He  has,"  Alice  returned  calmly,  rising  and  taking 
up  her  empty  soup  cup. 

"He  has?" 

Alice,  coming  around  the  table  to  get  the  other 
cup,  nodded. 

"I've  told  you  that  before.  Dick  has  been  per 
fectly  square.  In  the  beginning,  when  we  were 
first  interested  in  each  other,  he  said  he  was  going  to 
be  a  bachelor  always." 

"Oh,  that!"  Clara  said,  disappointed  and  a  little 
bit  contemptuous.  And  as  Alice  moved  toward  the 
pantry  she  added,  "That's  when  you  should  have 
dropped  him  like  a  hot  cake,  too!" 


34  RITA  COVENTRY 

Alice  did  not  reply.  When  she  returned  from  the 
kitchen  bearing  plates  and  a  bowl  of  lettuce-and- 
tomato  salad,  Clara  continued  as  though  there  had 
been  no  interruption. 

"You'll  be  twenty-eight  pretty  soon,"  she  said. 
"You've  got  to  think  of  your  future.  You  ought  to 
have  been  married  ages  ago — a  girl  like  you,  with 
your  money  and  your  looks.  It  isn't  right  for  him  to 
be  driving  other  men  away  and — and  doing  nothing 
about  it  himself." 

"  But  I  keep  telling  you,"  Alice  said  as  she  began 
to  serve  the  salad  from  the  bowl  on  the  sideboard, 
"that  he  made  his  position  perfectly  clear  in  the 
beginning." 

"Yes,  but  what  about  your  position?" 

"That's  understood,  too.  We're  absolutely  free — 
both  of  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other  with  an  ironical  nod.  "  He's 
free,  as  he  wants  to  be,  and  you're  free  whether  you 
want  to  be  or  not — and  you  don't  want  to  be!" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

Having  served  the  salad,  she  had  taken  the  plates 
to  the  table,  where  she  was  now  engaged  in  placing 
a  slice  of  chicken  and  a  slice  of  ham  on  each. 

"That  is  to  say,"  pursued  her  friend,  "you 
wouldn't  want  to  marry  him?"  There  was  a  dry  little 
smile  upon  her  lips  as  she  gazed  at  the  unhappy 
Alice,  awaiting  a  reply. 

"Not  if  he  didn't  want  me,"  Alice  insisted  stoutly. 

"He'd  have  wanted  you  if  you'd  made  him." 


RITA  COVENTRY  35 

Fork  in  hand,  Alice  paused  and  looked  quickly 
at  her  friend. 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"  By  chucking  all  this  highfalutin  stuff  and  playing 
the  game." 

"There's  nothing  of  a  game  about  my  friendship 
with  Dick."  She  made  the  reply  with  a  show  of 
dignity,  but  Clara  was  not  to  be  deterred. 

"That's  just  what's  the  matter,"  she  retorted. 
"  Between  a  man  and  woman  it  is  a  game.  A  woman 
has  to  use  the  weapons  the  Lord  gave  her,  otherwise 
the  man  has  all  the  advantage.  He  can  come  to 
see  her  when  he  wants  to  or  stay  away  when  he  wants 
to,  but  it's  up  to  her  to  keep  him  from  knowing  that. 
Her  job  is  to  keep  him  on  the  anxious  seat.  That's 
what  makes  men  propose:  they  always  want  what 
they're  afraid  they  can't  have.  The  trouble  with  you, 
my  dear,  is  that  you're  too  square  with  him." 

"He's  square  with  me." 

"Maybe." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  he  isn't?"  de 
manded  Alice,  passing  Clara's  plate. 

"Not  except  that  he's  a  man.  I  wouldn't  trust 
any  man." 

Alice  took  her  own  plate  and  sat  down. 

"You're  so  awfully  cynical,"  she  said.  "I  can't 
seem  to  make  you  see  that  my  friendship  with  Dick 
is " 

Clara,  who  had  begun  to  eat,  could  not  wait  even 
to  masticate  her  salad  before  replying. 


36  RITA  COVENTRY 

"I   understand  this  much,"  she  put  in  thickly: 
"You'd  marry  Dick  to-morrow  if  he'd  ask  you." 
"Yes.     But  I—" 

"Wait!"  said  Clara,  holding  up  her  fork.  "You 
wouldn't  raise  a  finger  to  get  him — isn't  that  what 
you  were  going  to  say?" 

Alice,  looking  none  too  happy,  nodded  assent. 

"  1  knew  it,"  said  her  friend,  shaking  her  head 
hopelessly.  "And  that's  just  where  you  lose  out." 

"All  right  then,"  Alice  returned  in  a  tone  gentle 
but  determined,  "I'll  lose  out." 

She  looked  at  her  plate  for  a  moment,  touched  a 
lettuce  leaf  with  her  fork,  then  rose  and  hurried  to 
the  kitchen. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  Clara  called  after  her. 

"Nothing.     I  just  forgot  the  cocoa." 

She  was  a  long  time  getting  it,  but  her  eyes  were 
dry  when  she  returned. 

After  that  Clara  permitted  her  to  change  the  sub 
ject. 

"There's  just  a  chance,"  the  guest  announced  as 
they  were  finishing  supper,  "that  I'll  go  to  Atlantic 
City  next  week  sometime.  Georgina  Burke  phoned 
this  afternoon  and  invited  me — that  is,  if  they 
decide  to  go.  Sam  has  a  cold;  it  depends  on  that. 
If  his  cold  gets  better  between  now  and  Monday  the 
trip's  off."  She  laughed.  "  I  like  Sam  Burke.  I 
know  he's  a  trifle  loud,  but  he's  all  right,  and  he's 
strong  for  me.  I  amuse  him,  and  he's  awfully  gen 
erous.  Of  course  they'd  pay  all  my  expenses.  Well, 


RITA  COVENTRY  37 

I'd  like  to  get  in  a  few  miles  on  the  Boardwalk  just 
about  now  so,  much  as  I  like  Sam,  I'm  rooting  for  his 
cold  to  hang  on  a  few  days  more." 

"Why,  Clara!"     Alice  was  shocked  but  amused. 

"Oh,"  said  the  other  lightly,  "  I  make  no  secret  of 
it.  I  told  Georgina  the  same  thing  and  asked  her  to 
tell  Sam.  He  likes  that  kind  of  talk — rough  stuff." 
Then  as  Alice  began  to  clear  the  table  she,  too,  arose, 
and  moving  some  of  the  dishes  to  the  sideboard 
asked,  "Shall  we  wash  the  dishes  now?" 

"No,  don't  you  bother.  I'll  just  set  them  in  the 
pantry  and  do  them  later." 

The  proposal  was  not  protested. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  she  was  about  to  go, 
Clara  spoke  again  of  the  new  scent  her  friend  was 
using. 

"Urn!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  always  have  such 
nice  perfumes." 

"Do  you  like  this  so  much?" 

"  It's  wonderful.     It  has  lure,  my  dear." 

"Lure?" 

"Yes.  You  know— like  expensive  ladies  in  ele 
vators  at  the  Ritz." 

Clara  went  to  the  bedroom  and  from  the  dressing- 
table  drawer  produced  the  little  bottle  in  its  pretty 
box  and  handed  it  to  Clara,  who  drew  out  the  stopple 
and  inhaled  ecstatically. 

"  Urn ! "  she  exclaimed  again.     "  De-lish ! ' 

She  corked  the  bottle,  put  it  back,  closed  the  box 
and  held  it  out  to  Alice.  But  Alice  did  not  take  it. 


38  RITA  COVENTRY 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  have  it." 
"Oh,  Alice!     You  dear!     But  I  mustn't  rob  you!" 
"Nonsense!"     Alice  gently  pushed  away  the  hand 
containing  the  box.     "  I  don't  think  I  like  it  as  well 
as  the  kind  I  used  before."     And  with  a  little  laugh 
she  added,  "  I  guess  lure  isn't  exactly  my  style,  any 
way — worse  luck! 


CHAPTER  IV 

AIGHTING  from  his  car  in  front  of  Rita  Cov 
entry's  house  Parrish  told  his  chauffeur  to 
return  at  half-past  eleven. 

"And  wait/'  he  added. 

The  house,  one  of  a  block  of  English-basement 
residences  of  red  brick  and  white  stone,  stood  in  a 
side  street  a  few  doors  from  Central  Park  West. 
Through  the  evening  dimness  he  saw  that  the  win 
dows  of  the  floor  above,  now  glowing  with  soft  light 
from  within,  were  equipped  with  boxes  in  which  low 
shrubs  grew.  The  front  door,  two  steps  up,  was  of 
wrought  iron  backed  by  plate  glass  and  curtains  of 
light  silk,  through  which  sifted  a  pleasant  amber 
radiance. 

His  ring  was  answered  promptly  by  a  blond  young 
butler,  evidently  a  Frenchman  or  a  Swiss,  who, 
after  taking  his  hat,  coat,  and  cane,  led  him  as  far  as 
the  stair  landing,  from  which  point  he  indicated  with 
a  polite  gesture  the  drawing  room  at  the  front  of  the 
house  on  the  floor  above,  whence  came  a  buzz  of 
conversation. 

In  his  first  glimpse  of  the  room  from  the  doorway 
Parrish  perceived  that  it  was  spacious  and  that  the 
walls  and  ceiling  were  of  gray  and  cream  colour,  with 

39 


40  RITA  COVENTRY 

low-relief  moldings  and  embellishments  in  the  Adam 
style.  Furnished  "in  the  period,"  it  would  have 
been  a  chamber  dignified  and  chaste.  But  it  was 
not  so  furnished.  In  its  heterogeneous  contents  he 
seemed  to  read  the  journal  of  a  world  traveller,  a 
cosmopolitan  with  an  ample,  careless  pocketbook,  a 
quick,  acquisitive  feeling  for  beautiful  things,  and 
a  striking  disregard  for  the  conventions — at  least 
for  those  having  to  do  with  the  furnishing  and  deco 
ration  of  a  house. 

Inside  the  door  he  paused  briefly.  Rita,  across 
the  room,  was  half  surrounded  by  a  group  of  guests. 
Her  back,  which  was  toward  him,  was  uncovered 
save  for  two  ropes  of  emerald  beads  which  passed  over 
her  shoulders  and  connected  with  her  gown  at  the 
waistline.  Standing  thus,  she  appeared  to  be  dressed 
only  in  these  beads  and  a  scant  satin  skirt,  black  and 
lustrous  like  her  hair.  The  skirt  was  festooned  with 
strings  of  beads,  matching  the  fan  of  green  ostrich 
plumes  that  dangled  from  a  loop  of  velvet  ribbon 
on  her  arm.  She  was  talking  and  gesturing,  using 
her  hands  and  shoulders  as  he  had  seen  her  use  them 
long  ago  in  Paris,  at  Larue's. 

As  Larry  Merrick,  standing  near  her,  caught  sight 
of  Parrish  and  nodded  a  greeting,  Rita  turned  with  a 
rattling  of  beads,  and  extending  her  hand  gave  him 
a  smile  that  made  him  feel  as  if  more  lights  had  been 
turned  on  in  the  room.  He  advanced  and  took  her 
hand.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  seen  a 
human  being  so  full  of  brilliant  contrast — white 


RITA  COVENTRY  4r 

teeth  contrasted  with  red  lips,  red  lips  against  a 
creamy  skin,  and  a  creamy  skin  set  off  in  turn  by 
dark  eyes  and  the  jet  black  of  her  gown  and  hair. 

Except  Rita  and  Larry  Merrick,  Hermann  Krauss, 
the  Jewish  banker  and  patron  of  music,  was  the 
only  one  of  the  group  he  knew.  The  others  proved 
to  be  Schoen  the  pianist,  his  pretty  American  wife, 
and  Mrs.  Fernis,  the  novelist,  who  gushed  and  con 
tinually  spoke  to  Rita,  and  of  Rita,  by  her  first  name 
in  a  way  to  suggest  that  she  was  vain  of  the  intimacy. 
Hardly  had  he  been  introduced  when  three  more 
guests  arrived — Bickford,  the  steel  millionaire,  with 
his  girlishly  dressed  "wife  of  fifty-five  or  sixty,  and 
Luigi  Busini,  the  great  conductor  of  the  opera,  a  man 
tall  and  dark  with  a  beautiful  profile  and  the  look  of 
one  whose  hat  has  been  blown  away  and  whose  hair 
and  moustache  have  been  set  on  end  by  the  same  high 
wind. 

Parrish,  who  had  of  course  heard  the  gossip  about 
Rita  and  Busini,  watched  them  now  with  interest. 
Busini  kissed  her  hand  and  looked  at  her  ardently; 
but  as  he  did  the  same  with  each  of  the  other  ladies 
one  could  hardly  deduce  anything  from  that. 

The  butler  and  a  maid  now  appeared  with  trays  of 
cocktails  and  appetizing  little  sandwiches  of  caviar 
and  pate  de  foie  gras,  after  which  the  company  moved 
in  helter-skelter  order  to  the  dining  room  at  the  rear 
of  the  house  on  the  same  floor.  It  was  an  unusual 
dining  room,  resembling,  rather,  a  conservatory,  with 
its  many  plants,  its  large  windows  facing  the  south, 


42  RITA  COVENTRY 

and  its  walls  of  imitation  stone,  stripped  with  green 
lattice,  through  which  vines  climbed  from  marble 
pots  on  the  floor. 

Parrish  was  pleasantly  surprised  to  find  himself 
placed  at  Rita's  right,  and  it  amused  him  to  notice 
that  both  Krauss  and  Busini,  seeking  their  seats  at 
table,  looked  first  at  his  place  card,  as  though  each 
expected  to  find  his  own  name  there. 

"No,  Luigi — at  the  other  end,"  said  Rita,  indi 
cating  to  Busini  his  seat  far  down  the  board. 

The  conductor  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  dis 
appointment.  He  gave  a  little  shrug  as  he  turned 
away. 

"He  is  not  pleased,"  remarked  Krauss  as  he  seated 
himself  at  Rita's  left.  His  eyes,  following  Busini, 
twinkled.  "He  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  slip  a 
stiletto  under  your  fifth  rib,  Mr.  Parrish." 

"I  have  spoiled  Luigi,"  said  Rita.  "See — he 
won't  look  at  me.  He's  cross  as  a  bear."  And  she 
explained  to  Parrish,  "He  sulks  that  way  if  there's 
anything  he  doesn't  like." 

"  I  understand  his  disappointment,"  Parrish  said. 
"  You  were  very  kind  to  place  me  here." 

"No — selfish,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  want  to  know 
you.  Luigi  has  sat  here  often  enough.  His  per 
formance  reminds  me  of  something  that  happened  at 
a  dinner  in  Paris  years  ago  just  after  my  debut.  It 
was  Vasquez's  first  season  there.  He  was  a  sen 
sation.  They  were  calling  him  the  greatest  bary 
tone  that  ever  lived.  The  Russian  ambassador  was 


RITA  COVENTRY  43 

at  this  dinner  but  he  was  placed  at  the  left  of  the 
hostess  and  Vasquez  on  her  right.  I  sat  by  the  am 
bassador.  He  was  very  charming,  but  he  was  an 
noyed  all  the  same.  As  he  was  leaving  the  house  he 
kissed  the  hostess'  hand,  and  then,  so  that  she  could 
hear,  said  to  Vasquez,  'Good-night,  Monsieur.  His 
Majesty,  my  august  sovereign,  will  be  much  flattered 
when  I  tell  him  that  this  evening  it  was  you  who  rep 
resented  him/ ' 

Rita's  was  the  sort  of  dinner  at  which  people  talk 
about  dinners  and  dining.  The  cuisine,  that  is  to 
say,  was  perfectly  Parisian  and  the  wines,  from  sherry 
to  champagne,  delicious. 

Schoen  told  of  the  chef  of  an  Italian  prince  who 
refused  to  prepare  a  meal  for  more  than  twelve. 
When  his  employer  gave  large  dinners  the  chef 
would  cook  only  for  the  dozen  most  prominent 
guests,  the  repasts  of  the  remainder  being  prepared 
by  his  assistant,  who  sometimes  made  out  a  sepa 
rate  menu.  The  chef  maintained  that  twelve  was 
the  greatest  number  for  whom  one  man  could  cook, 
and  that  a  smaller  number  was  even  better.  He  had 
a  saying,  "Pas  mains  que  les  Graces,  et  pas  plus 
que  les  Graces  et  les  Muses."  At  last  he  left  because 
his  employer,  who  was  entertaining  an  Archduke  of 
Austria  at  luncheon,  demanded  that  he  cook  for 
fourteen. 

This,  in  turn,  reminded  Rita  of  a  story  about 
Brambleton,  the  London  critic.  Besides  his  caustic 
criticisms,  Brambleton  was  famous  for  two  things— 


44  RITA  COVENTRY 

his  love  of  food  and  of  solitude  and  silence.  He 
avoided  people,  or  if  he  could  not  avoid  them  refused 
to  be  drawn  into  conversations.  One  day  a  fellow 
critic  who  more  than  once  had  crossed  swords  with 
him  in  print  saw  him  alone  in  a  restaurant.  He 
spoke  to  Brambleton,  but  the  latter  did  not  answer. 
Just  then  the  waiter  put  a  dozen  oysters  on  the  table 
before  him. 

"Look  here,  Brambleton,"  said  his  confrere, 
"don't  you  think  you  had  better  invite  me  to  lunch 
with  you  to-day?" 

Brambleton  shook  his  head  and  glared. 

"  Because  it  is  unlucky  to  do  what  you  are  doing," 
the  other  persisted.  "You're  thirteen  at  table." 

The  dinner  was  all  but  over  before  Parrish  realized 
that  his  neglect  of  Mrs.  Fernis,  at  his  own  right,  had 
verged  upon  rudeness.  In  the  last  few  moments  he 
turned  and  talked  with  her,  trying  to  make  up  for 
the  earlier  delinquency.  And  yet  he  felt  that  here, 
much  more  than  at  the  average  dinner  party,  there 
was  an  excuse  for  what  he  had  done;  it  was  not 
only  he  whose  attention  had  been  centred  on  Rita; 
Mrs.  Fernis  and  all  the  others  had  looked  to  her 
rather  than  to  those  beside  them.  Eyes  drawn  to 
Rita  in  the  first  instance  by  her  beauty  were  held 
not  only  by  that  beauty  but  by  some  strange  ad- 
ductive  power  almost  entirely  apart  from  it:  a  kind 
of  vividness  which  Parrish,  watching  her,  explained 
to  himself  as  being  like  the  vital  force  of  two  or  three 
persons  combined  in  one.  She  bubbled  with  spirits. 


RITA  COVENTRY  45 

Her  mind  and  tongue  were  quick.  She  was  amusing. 
Yet  there  was  that  about  her  which,  even  when  the 
things  she  said  were  of  no  consequence,  made  people 
pause  and  listen.  Call  it  personality,  individuality, 
magnetism,  charm,  allurement,  what  you  will,  she 
had  that  gift,  indefinable  and  priceless,  that  super 
something,  which  is  granted  to  a  few  rare  beings  in 
this  world,  and  which  causes  those  who  have  it  to 
stand  out  from  the  mass  of  mankind  like  search 
lights  in  the  night. 

As  the  party  left  the  dining  room  he  man 
aged  to  keep  his  place  at  her  side.  "I'm  to  see  those 
prints?"  he  reminded  her. 

"Yes,  later — if  you  don't  mind  waiting  after  the 
others  go." 

"Oh,  thanks!"  Then  he  asked  a  question  about 
something  he  had  wondered  over:  "How  have  you 
found  time  to  interest  yourself  in  prints — a  woman 
as  busy  as  you  are?" 

"Ah,"  she  replied,  looking  at  him  over  her  white 
shoulder  and  giving  him  the  smile,  "I  can  say  to 
that  what  Mario  said,  '  I  have  had  all  the  follies- 
all.'  But  I'll  tell  you  more  about  it  later." 

"About  the  follies?"  he  suggested,  smiling. 

"No,  the  prints.  I  don't  talk  of  my  follies.  It's 
enough  to  commit  them.  I  leave  the  talk  to  the 
world,  and  to  judge  from  the  reports  I  hear,  the  world 
is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  it." 

When  in  the  drawing  room  coffee  and  cigarettes 
were  passed  Rita  took  both.  As  she  lighted  her 


46  RITA  COVENTRY 

cigarette  from  the  silver  lamp  held  by  the  butler, 
Busini  came  over  to  her. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  smoking  any  more?"  he 
said  in  Italian. 

"Then,  caro  mio,"  she  retorted  gayly,  "I  have  not 
altogether  lost  the  power  to  surprise  you."  She 
blew  smoke  at  him. 

"Your  upper  register!"  he  said  with  grim  signifi 
cance,  and  turned  away. 

"Beast!"  she  called  after  him.  But  she  was 
not  disturbed,  for  she  winked  at  Parrish,  ex 
plaining,  "He  is  trying  to  be  as  awful  as  he  can 
to-night.  It  makes  him  furious  when  he  can 
not  annoy  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  upper 
register  is  better  than  it  ever  was."  She  appealed 
to  the  others:  "Isn't  my  upper  register  better  than 
ever?" 

"Indeed  it  is,  Rita  darling!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fer- 
nis.  "  It  never  was  so  rich  and  full." 

"Isn't  it,  Hermann?" 

"Absolutely!"  declared  Krauss.  "Like  your  fig 
ure,  my  dear,  it  continues  to  improve.  When  you 
are  sixty  I  shall  no  longer  be  able  to  resist  you.  We 
shall  go  to  Venice." 

"Your  voice  is  superb — superb!"  put  in  Schoen, 
without  waiting  to  be  asked.  "  But  for  saying  so  I 
want  an  orange." 

"Great  goose!"  she  said,  slapping  at  him  with  the 
green-plumed  fan. 

"  I  do  want  an  orange,"  he  insisted. 


RITA  COVENTRY  47 

"Really?  What  for?  Haven't  you  had  enough  to 
eat?" 

"  I  do  not  want  it  to  eat.  I  want  an  orange  and  a 
hairbrush.  I  will  do  tricks  for  you." 

"Very  well,  child,  you  shall  have  them.     Ring." 

She  indicated  a  push  button  near  the  door. 
Schoen  rang  and  gave  his  peculiar  order  to  the  but 
ler  who  went  away  and  soon  returned  with  the 
orange  and  the  hairbrush. 

"Come  and  see  this,  Rita.  Come,  everybody!" 
cried  the  pianist,  going  over  to  the  instrument  and 
sitting  down  upon  the  bench  before  it. 

They  gathered  about  him.  Taking  the  orange  in 
his  right  hand  he  began  to  roll  it  quickly  back  and 
forth  over  the  black  keys,  at  the  same  time  playing 
an  accompaniment  with  his  left,  producing  a  charm 
ing  little  air. 

"Something  of  your  own?"  asked  Krauss  as  he 
finished. 

"His  own?"  echoed  Busini  with  a  snort.  "Chop 
in's  own !  The  '  Black  Key  Study.' ' 

"The  orange  is  my  part,"  said  Schoen  amiably. 

"  Do  it  again !     Do  it  again ! " 

The  artist,  who  was  like  a  large,  jovial  boy,  did  it 
again,  evidently  enjoying  his  trick  greatly. 

"Let  me  do!"  cried  Busini,  crowding  his  way  up 
to  the  piano. 

"Wait,"  said  Rita.  "What's  the  hairbrush  for?1 

She  held  it  up,  a  lovely  thing  of  gold  and  enamel 
with  little  wreaths  of  roses  on  the  back. 


48  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Ah!"  said  Schoen,  assuming  the  mysterious  air 
of  a  magician  as  he  put  down  the  orange  and  took 
the  brush  from  her  hand.  "Now  you  shall  see! 
This  is  perhaps  my  chef-d'oeuvre." 

Again  his  large  left  hand  ran  over  the  bass  keys, 
while  with  the  brush,  held  in  his  right,  he  played  the 
"Ride  of  the  Valkyries,"  pressing  down  upon  the 
keys  with  the  bristles.  His  auditors  were  filled  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Wonderful ! "  laughed  Krauss,  applauding.  "  You 
must  stop  giving  recitals  at  Carnegie  Hall,  where 
your  art  is  not  perhaps  fully  appreciated,  and  go  into 
vaudeville — three  or  four  thousand  dollars  a  week!" 

Even  Busini  was  lost  in  admiration,  forgetting  for 
a  time  to  sulk. 

"Now  let  me  do!"  he  cried,  seizing  the  orange  and 
elbowing  Schoen  to  the  end  of  the  piano  bench. 

His  first  effort  was  not  entirely  successful. 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  originator  of  the  trick.  "Not 
that  way!  You  hold  it  too  tight.  Let  it  roll  in  your 
palm."  He  tried  to  take  the  orange  from  Busini  in 
order  to  illustrate,  but  the  latter  clung  to  it  as  a 
child  clings  to  a  toy. 

"Aspetto!  Let  me  have  my  chance.  I  want  to 
do!"  And  he  began  again.  "There!"  he  ex 
claimed,  delighted,  as  after  some  practice  he  bega-n 
to  get  it.  "Now  I  do  better!  This  is  more  like!" 

"The  bass!  The  bass!"  admonished  Schoen,  eager 
to  help.  "  It  isn't  only  the  orange,  Luigi.  You 
must  get  the  bass,  too!" 


RITA  COVENTRY  49 

"  I  don't  know  the  bass.  I  play  it  by  ear — hearing 
you." 

"Look — it's  like  this!"  Schoen  showed  him  the 
chords  and  Busini  attempted  it  again,  still  without 
perfect  success. 

"Amateur!"  said  Rita. 

"But  this  is  the  first  time  I  try!"  protested  the 
conductor,  and  made  a  grimace  at  her.  Then  put 
ting  down  the  orange  he  said,  "Now  give  me  the 
hairbrush." 

"It's  just  what  you  need!"  Rita  said  with  a  laugh, 
but  the  other  did  not  grasp  the  jest  at  once. 

"Oh,"  he  retorted,  passing  his  hand  over  his  up 
standing  locks,  "it  is  my  beautiful  hair  you  do  not 
admire  this  evening,  carissima?  And  you  used  to 
admire  so  greatly!"  He  shrugged. 

"You  misunderstand,  Luigi,"  she  said  with  mock 
ardour.  "To  me  your  hair  will  always  be  beautiful. 
It  will  be  a  beautiful  memory  even  after  it  is  gone. 
For  you,  my  dear,  it  is  the  back  of  the  brush." 

As  the  others  laughed  the  face  of  the  Italian  lighted 
with  sudden  comprehension.  He  clapped  his  hands. 

"Ah,  je  comprends!  C'est  ca!    That  is  very  droll. 
Oh,  very  droll,  Rita!"     And  to  the  others,  who  had 
understood   from   the   first,   he   began   to   explain: 
"  You  see  what  she  mean?     She  mean  I  am  naughty 
boy;  I  ought  to  have  the  bastone— the  sponk!' 
illustrated,  hitting  the  palm  of  his  hand  with  the 
back  of  the  brush.  Then,  to  Rita,  admiringly: 
wonder  everybody  fall  in  love  with  you,  cherie.     You 


50  RITA  COVENTRY 

are  beautiful.     So  are  other  women.     But  you  have 
esprit.     That  is  what— 

Rita  interrupted  him,  singing, 

"Pourquoi  serais-je  belle 
Si  ce  n'est  pour  etre  aimee" 

"Yes,  from  'Louise,'"  said  Busini,  "but  a  half 
tone  low."  He  struck  a  key  several  times  with  one 
finger,  then  a  chord. 

"He  has  absolute  pitch,  you  know,"  Mrs.  Fernis 
told  Parrish  in  an  awed  tone. 

"Absolute  pitch?" 

"Yes."  She  turned  to  Rita,  saying,  "Get  him  to 
show  Mr.  Parrish,  Rita  dear." 

Busini  was  quite  willing  to  exhibit  his  strange  gift. 
Going  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  he  named,  one 
after  another,  the  notes  making  up  each  of  many 
chords  struck  on  the  piano  by  Schoen.  As  he  sat 
down  afterward,  amid  exclamations  and  applause, 
he  seemed  to  be  in  better  humour  than  at  any  time 
during  the  evening. 

The  two  bars  from  "Louise"  which  Rita  had  play 
fully  sung  made  Parrish  eager  to  hear  more. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  sing  to  us?"  he  asked  her. 

He  had  not  meant  the  request  to  be  overheard  by 
the  others,  but  the  sudden  silence  which  ensued  about 
them,  and  the  eyes  turned  to  her,  showed  him  that  he 
was  not  alone  in  awaiting  her  answer. 


RITA  COVENTRY  5, 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  "  I'll 
sing."  The  beads  on  her  gown  rattled  pleasantly  as 
she  rose  and  moved  to  the  piano. 

"  Rita  must  like  you  very  much,"  Mrs.  Fernis  said 
to  him  in  an  undertone.  "She  almost  never  sings  for 
her  guests." 

"But  no  one  has  asked  her  to,"  he  returned. 
"I've  been  waiting,  thinking  someone  else  would  do 
it ;  someone  who  knows  her  better  than  I  do." 

"We  don't  ask  her." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,  you  mean?" 

"You  didn't  know  the  unwritten  law." 

"She  could  easily  have  said  no." 

"Not  to  you,  evidently,"  said  the  lady  with  a 
certain  air  of  coy  intimation. 

She  had  made  him  uncomfortable,  but  he  forgot 
that  a  moment  later  when,  after  striking  a  chord, 
Rita  let  her  golden  voice  fill  the  room. 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine— 

Her  head  was  thrown  back  slightly,  and  her  gaze 
rested,  while  she  sang,  upon  the  upper  part  of  the 
tapestry  across  the  room.  But  when  at  the  end  of 
the  song  she  allowed  her  eyes  to  fall  he  found  them 
meeting  his.  It  was  only  a  swift  glance  she  gave  him, 
but  it  thrilled  him.  She  had  looked  first  at  him! 
Then,  as  their  eyes  parted,  he  rebuked  himse If 
"Idiot!"  he  thought.  "She  looked  at  you  only 


52  RITA  COVENTRY 

because  it  happened  to  be  you  who  asked  her  to 
sing." 

Before  the  applause  had  stopped  he  was  at  her  side. 
She  had  risen  and  closed  the  cover  over  the  key 
board. 

"  It  was  the  loveliest  thing  I  ever  heard!"  he  said, 
glowing  with  sincerity.  "  But  I  am  afraid  I  did 
wrong  to  ask  you." 

"Admirable!"  came  Busini's  voice  across  the  room. 
"But  why?  Why  not  sing  something  good?" 

"That  is  a  good  song,"  she  replied  indifferently. 
Then,  to  Parrish,  "  I  felt  like  singing  to-night.  This 
sort  of  day  makes  me  feel  like  it." 

"Spring!"  he  answered  with  a  sigh.  "So  it  does 
me!" 

"And  you  don't  sing?" 

"Not  a  note." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  some  other  mode  of  expression 
for  the  springtime?"  she  suggested  with  a  little 
smile. 

"Auctions,"  said  he.  "I  buy  all  sorts  of  curios  I 
don't  want." 

"Why  not  the  thing  they  call  interpretative  danc 
ing?  Have  you  tried  that?  Judging  from  pictures 
in  the  magazines,  spring  is  the  season  in  which  to 
wrap  a  necktie  around  the  brow  and  prance  barefoot 
through  the  park  with  a  tablecloth." 

"One  must  get  up  at  dawn  for  that,"  he  objected, 
echoing  in  his  tone  the  mock  gravity  of  hers. 

"Or  stay  up  all  night,"  she  amended. 


RITA  COVENTRY  53 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bickford,  who  had  sat  through  the 
evening  like  people  entertained  and  a  little  mysti 
fied,  came  up  in  time  to  catch  the  last  words  Rita 
spoke. 

"That's  what  we  mustn't  do,"  said  the  lady. 
"Alex  is  at  his  desk  every  morning  at  nine-thirty.  Ex 
ample,  you  know."  Whereupon  she  and  her  hus 
band  said  good-night. 

"Is  anybody  going  our  way?"  Bickford  asked, 
pausing  at  the  door.  It  was  unnecessary  for  him  to 
say  which  way  theirs  was.  The  Bickford  house,  on  a 
Fifth  Avenue  corner,  across  the  park,  was  celebrated 
throughout  the  city  for  its  curious  tower,  its  arches, 
balconies,  and  strange  protuberances,  resembling  gi 
gantic  goiters  carved  in  stone.  The  invitation  re 
sulted  in  the  departure  of  the  Schoens  and  Mrs. 
Fernis.  Krauss,  too,  said  good-night. 

"Perhaps  I  can  drop  you,  Mr.  Parrish?"  he  sug 
gested. 

But  before  he  could  answer,  Rita  replied: 

"I've  asked  Mr.  Parrish  to  stay  behind.  I  want 
him  to  see  my  print  collection." 

"You,  Merrick?"  said  the  banker.  "You,  Busini?" 

Merrick  accepted,  but  Busini  shook  his  head. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  he  replied.  "I  also  will  stay 
and  look  at  those  print." 

Parrish  heard  this  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment, 
which,  however,  Rita  almost  instantly  dispelled. 

"No,  you  won't!"  she  said  to  the  Italian;  and 
though  she  said  it  with  a  smile  her  tone  was  definite 


54  RITA  COVENTRY 

enough.  "You  would  never  look  at  my  prints  be 
fore.  Now  you  can  go  home,  my  dear!" 

"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  Busini  answered,  giving 
her  a  slanting  smile.  "That  is  another  song  silly 
like  the  one  you  sang.  Home  is  not  always  attrac 
tive."  His  shrug  expressed  a  certain  resignation. 
"Good-night,  beautiful  Rita."  He  kissed  her  hand; 
then,  bowing  formally  to  Parrish,  he  said:  "Good 
night,  sirr.  I  believe  you  will  enjoy  those  print.  I 
am  inform  that  the  collection  of  mademoiselle  is 
large.  Some  examples,  I  believe,  have  merit.  Per 
haps  others  not  so  good.  But  that  might  be  due, 
sometimes,  to  a  selection  too  sudden."  He  looked  at 
Rita  as  he  finished:  "Mademoiselle's  temperament 
is  like  that.  For  deciding  she  is  very  quick." 

Parrish  was  vaguely  annoyed,  for,  although  he  was 
not  certain  of  Busini's  meaning,  he  sensed  an  indi 
rection  of  some  kind.  He  bowed  formally  and  Busini 
walked  toward  the  door. 

"There  is  this  about  my  collection,  Luigi,"  said 
Rita  as  he  moved  away:  "When  I  find  in  it  some 
thing  not  so  good  as  I  had  believed  it  to  be  I  quickly 
get  rid  of  it.  Good-night,  mon  ami." 

Moving  to  the  doorway  she  pressed  a  push  button 
causing  a  bell  to  sound  faintly  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  house.  Then  she  turned  to  Parrish. 

"Come,"  she  said.  "The  prints  are  in  the  sitting 
room  on  the  floor  above." 

As  she  led  him  up  the  stairway  they  heard  the 
soft,  metallic  sound  of  the  front  door  closing 


RITA  COVENTRY  55 

behind  Busini,  whereupon  she  paused  and  leaning 
over  the  balustrade  called  the  butler: 

"Pierre." 

"Mademoiselle?"  He  came  running  up. 

"Laissez  la  lumiere  la-bas." 

"Bien,  mademoiselle.     Merci." 

He  turned  and  descended  toward  the  lower  hall. 


CHAPTER  V 

RITA'S  sitting  room  bore  no  resemblance  to 
the  other  rooms  that  he  had  seen.  It  was 
smaller,  and  there  was  about  it  a  modernity 
that  was  aggressive  and  startling.  The  carpet  was 
of  solid  black;  the  panel  moldings  on  the  deep  ivory 
walls  were  picked  out  in  lines  of  black  and  nastur 
tium  colour,  and  the  same  striking  combination  ap 
peared  again  in  the  mantelpiece  and  in  the  hangings 
at  the  doors  and  windows.  Two  deep,  comfortable 
couches  standing  at  either  side  of  the  fireplace  were 
upholstered  in  black  velvet,  and  might  have  given  a 
too  sombre  note  but  for  the  brilliant  pillows  of  taffeta 
in  solid  colours  with  which  they  were  equipped. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  she  asked,  seeing  that  he 
paused  and  looked  about,  on  entering. 

"It  is  very  striking." 

"Be  frank.  I've  just  had  it  done.  I'm  not  sure 
I  like  it  myself.  I  fell  into  the  clutches  of  a  deco 
rator,  a  very  clever  and  persuasive  woman,  who  wants 
to  do  the  whole  house." 

"Don't  let  her." 

"  I  don't  intend  to.  This  sort  of  thing  seems  to 
me  abnormal — like  Strawinsky's  music.  I'm  hav 
ing  a  frightful  time,  though,  keeping  her  out  of  my 

56 


RITA  COVENTRY  57 

bedroom.  She  wants  to  give  me  black-and-gold 
walls— originality,  you  know.  She  says  my  bedroom 
isn't  original,  but  I  tell  her  sleep  isn't  original,  either." 

Parrish  smiled. 

"How  is  it  done  now?"  he  asked.  "Rose  colour, 
I  suppose." 

"French  blue  and  gray." 

"That  sounds  nice." 

"Would  you  care  to  see  it?  It's  just  back  there." 
She  indicated  the  door. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to." 

"Come,  then." 

He  noticed  again  the  rattling  of  the  beads  as  they 
passed  down  the  hall.  It  was  a  sound  disturbing  but 
agreeable. 

The  bedroom  was  spacious.  The  French  blue  of 
the  velvet  carpet  ran  up  into  the  window  hangings, 
the  portieres  and  the  canopy  and  covering  of  the  bed, 
all  which  were  of  taffeta.  The  bed  was  large  and 
much  carved,  with  panels  of  basket-work  let  in  at 
head  and  foot.  All  the  furniture  was  of  a  cold  gray 
tone  a  trifle  lighter  than  that  of  the  walls,  and  the 
only  colour  in  the  room  other  than  blue  and  gray  was 
in  the  gold  of  picture  frames  and  small  articles  on  the 
dressing  table,  in  the  pink  roses  filling  a  bowl  upon 
a  table  and  the  small  design  of  rose  wreaths  with 
which  the  silken  draperies  were  bordered. 

On  a  table,  conspicuously  placed,  Parrish  noticed  a 
large  photograph  of  Busini.  That,  however,  would 
have  seemed  to  him  more  significant  had  not  this 


58  RITA  COVENTRY 

room,  like  the  sitting  room  and  the  drawing  room 
downstairs,  contained  so  many  other  framed  photo 
graphs.  Whatever  truth  there  might  or  might  not 
be  in  the  gossip  about  Rita  and  Busini,  she  was  evi 
dently  not  in  the  least  sensitive  about  it ;  nor  about 
that  story  of  her  affair  with  a  monarch,  either,  for 
the  picture  of  that  potentate,  with  a  friendly  inscrip 
tion  in  his  handwriting,  stood  on  the  table  in  the 
sitting  room. 

After  a  brief  survey  of  the  bedroom  he  exclaimed, 
"Oh,  don't  let  the  decorator-lady  touch  it!" 

"You  like  it  as  it  is?" 

"It's  exquisite.  Let  the  decorator  do  her  own 
bedroom  in  her  own  way.  This  room  expresses 
you." 

Indeed  it  seemed  to  fit  her  as  a  jewel-case  fits  its 
gem.  Into  his  mind  there  came  a  vision  of  her  as 
she  must  look  in  that  bed  when  the  maid  brought  her 
breakfast  in  that  morning.  He  was  sure  she  had  her 
breakfast  there,  and  that,  doing  so,  she  made  a  pic 
ture  to  delight  the  eye  of  an  old-time  French  engraver. 
She  would  be  propped  against  a  mountain  of  soft 
pillows,  and  would  wear  a  boudoir  cap  trimmed  with 
blue  ribbons  and  little  knots  of  roses  from  beneath 
which  locks  of  that  dark  wavy  hair  would  escape  to 
nestle  on  her  shoulder.  She  was  not  the  sort  of 
woman  who  would  look  tired  in  the  morning.  Far 
from  it!  She  would  be  pink  and  lovely  like  a  baby 
just  awake.  From  the  moment  her  eyes  opened 
there  would  be  that  brightness  in  their  depths.  She 


RITA  COVENTRY  59 

would  see  the  sun  streaming  through  the  curtains  and 
would  smile. 

He  turned  to  the  door  again. 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  how  you  became  inter 
ested  in  prints,"  said  he  as  they  moved  through  the 
hall  in  the  direction  of  the  sitting  room. 

"  It  was  the  summer  before  I  first  sang  'Butterfly.' 
I  wanted  a  rest  and  change,  and  I  thought  a  trip  to 
Japan  would  give  me  atmosphere  for  the  part.  Well, 
it  gave  me  a  taste  for  lacquer  and  jade  and  prints,  at 
all  events." 

They  were  in  the  sitting  room  now,  beside  a  table 
on  which  were  several  large  portfolios  bound  in  Japa 
nese  silk  and  fastened  with  little  pegs  of  ivory. 

Rita  opened  the  cover  of  the  uppermost  port 
folio  and  began  to  turn  the  cardboard  sheets  on  which 
the  prints  were  mounted. 

"This  light  is  poor,"  she  said,  pausing  after  they 
had  looked  at  two  or  three  of  the  pictures.  "Let's 
put  them  on  the  floor  under  the  tall  lamp." 

As  Parrish  carried  the  bulky  volume  over  and  laid 
it  on  the  rug  in  the  lamplight  Rita  took  a  cushion 
from  the  couch,  tossed  it  to  the  floor  and  dropped 
down  upon  it. 

"I'll  turn  for  you,"  she  said.  "You  can  stand. 
That  ought  to  give  you  about  the  right  distance." 

The  first  prints  were  primitives— a  Gonshiro,  sev 
eral  Morinobus  and  early  Harunobis,  interesting  as 
examples  of  the  art  in  its  beginnings;  but  presently 
she  came  to  works  by  later  masters— Utamaro,  Yei- 


60  RITA  COVENTRY 

shi,  Toyokuni;  superb  compositions  splashed  with 
rich  soft  colours  like  those  of  old  brocades. 

Rita  knew  about  prints.  The  selection  was  gen 
erally  good;  where  there  were  imperfections  she  rec 
ognized  them,  pointing  out  that  this  one  was  weak 
in  colour,  that  one  a  late  impression  made  after  the 
wooden  blocks  had  been  trimmed  at  the  edges,  or 
that  another  had  been  creased,  or  torn  and  mended. 

But  though  his  interest  in  this  art  was  genuine 
enough,  and  though  many  of  these  prints  were  worth 
seeing,  Parrish  found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  give 
them  his  attention.  How  may  a  man  yield  his  eyes 
to  minor  constellations  when  in  the  sky  is  Venus, 
brightest  and  most  beautiful  of  stars?  Continually 
his  glances  wandered  from  the  printed  images  to  the 
lovely  living  image  bending  over  them.  In  the  soft 
glow  of  the  lamp  the  beads  on  her  gown  shone  like 
the  jewels  of  some  fabled  princess  of  the  East ;  her  flesh 
was  luminous  and  rosy;  fascinating  lights  gleamed 
in  the  dark  waves  of  her  hair. 

By  the  time  the  first  portfolio  had  been  run  through 
he  was  aware  of  strain.  Carrying  the  portfolio  back 
to  its  place  upon  the  table,  and  bringing  the  sec 
ond,  he  congratulated  himself  on  having  so  far  been 
coherent.  But  there  were  four  portfolios!  Too 
many! 

Now  she  was  showing  him  Hokusais — the  thirty- 
six  Views  of  Fuji. 

What  a  back!  How  flat  and  flexible!  And  as  she 
turned  the  pages,  how  beautiful  the  soft  plav  of  the 


RITA  COVENTRY  61 

muscles!  Other  women  had  pretty  backs,  but  it 
was  simply  cruel  to  compare  another  back  with 
Rita's.  Muttering  something  about  Hokusai's  detail, 
he  flung  a  cushion  to  the  floor  and  dropped  down  be 
side  her.  Yet  here,  without  looking  at  her  directly, 
he  continued  to  be  disturbed.  Every  time  she  turned 
a  page  he  was  aware  of  the  white  loveliness  of  her 
arm  and  shoulder  near  him.  Presently  he  began  to 
feel  something  like  an  electric  current.  It  seemed  to 
emanate  from  her  arm  and  jump  across  to  his.  Did 
she  feel  it,  too?  Apparently  not,  for  she  continued 
calmly  to  turn  the  prints,  commenting  upon  them  as 
she  went  along. 

''Let's  stop!"  he  heard  himself  exclaim  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  strange  to  him. 

He  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  the  critical  part  of 
his  mind  came  into  play,  telling  him  that  kind  of 
talk  would  not  do  at  all.  Suppose  she  were  now 
to  ask  him  why  he  wished  to  stop  looking  at  the 
prints— what  would  he  say?  If  he  had  good  sense 
he  would  say  he  had  a  headache— and  go  home. 
But  would  he  do  that?  Or  would  he  blurt  out  reck 
lessly  some  further  wildness? 

But  Rita  did  not  ask  him.  She  did  not  speak. 
Dimly  he  was  aware  that  she  reached  out  and  closed 
the  portfolio.  She  had  turned  her  head  and  was 
looking  at  him.  She  did  feel  that  current !  Her  eyes 
told  him  so!  He  leaned,  gazing  into  them  with 
straining  eagerness  like  that  of  one  who  seeks  to  pene 
trate  the  depths  of  some  unfathomable  sea. 


62  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Why — they're  blue!"  he  murmured  huskily. 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  showed  in  them.  He 
leaned  a  little  more.  Now  he  could  see  nothing  but 
her  eyes.  The  rest  of  the  world  was  nebulous.  He 
was  shipwrecked  on  those  sweet  blue  seas. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RTA  descended  with  him  to  the  lower  hall  as 
he  was   leaving.     The  butler,  according  to 
her  direction,   had  left  the  lights   burning 
there.     On  a  carved  Italian  chest  reposed  his  coat, 
hat,  and  cane.     As  he  started  to  slip  into  the  coat  she 
stepped  behind  him  and  taking  hold  of  the  collar 
helped    him    on    with    it.     Then    she   gave  either 
shoulder  a  touch  of  adjustment  as  if  she  loved  to 
give  it. 

He  turned  quickly,  and  as  they  stood  there  silent 
for  a  moment  he  felt  her  fingers  working  softly  at  the 
edge  of  his  lapel.  How  sweet  to  have  her  doing 
that!  There  was  a  lovely  fragrance  in  her  hair 
against  his  cheek. 

"My  beautiful !"  he  whispered.  "Oh,  my  beautiful !" 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  in  a  voice  low  and 
lovely    sang    again    in    French    the    passage  from 
"Louise": 

"Why  should  I  be  beautiful 
If  it  is  not  to  be  loved?" 

"Rita,"  he  murmured,  "I  love  you  so!" 
"It's  spring,"  she  answered,  smiling. 
"  No,  it's  you !     I  'm  mad  about  you ! ' 

63 


64  RITA  COVENTRY 

"You  think  so." 

"  Not '  think ' — know  !  Tell  me,  do  you  care  for  me 
as  I  do  for  you?" 

She  patted  his  cheek. 

"Rita,  you  do  care,  don't  you?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

That  did  not  satisfy  him. 

"How  much?"  he  demanded. 

She  raised  her  lips.     Ah,  that  was  better! 

"When  am  I  to  see  you  again?"  he  asked.  "Can 
you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  night?" 

"To-morrow  night  1  sing." 

"Supper,  then,  afterwards?" 

"I'm  sorry — I've  promised  to  go  to  Fremecourt's 
birthday  party." 

"When,  then?" 

She  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I'll  telephone,"  she  said. 

He  wrote  on  a  visiting  card  his  address  and  his 
telephone  numbers  uptown  and  down. 

"When  will  you  telephone?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Of  course.     But  what  time?" 

" Before  I  go  to  the  opera." 

"That  would  be  around  six?" 

She  nodded. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said  in  a  low  eager  voice,  "I'll 
be  waiting  all  day  for  that  call!" 

He  opened  the  door,  but  paused  reluctant  on  the 
threshold. 


RITA  COVENTRY  65 

She  gave  him  a  gay  little  wave  of  dismissal,  say 
ing,  "Good-night." 

"  1  love  you!"  he  said,  and  closed  the  heavy  door 
behind  him. 

In  the  vestibule  he  paused  until  the  amber  lights 
within  were  extinguished.  Then  he  walked  toward 
his  limousine,  which  was  standing  at  the  curb.  In 
the  sky  to  the  east  he  saw  the  first  pink  glow  of  ap 
proaching  dawn.  Somewhere  overhead  a  sparrow 
chirped  as  if  to  tell  him  he  was  not  the  only  creature 
in  the  world  awake.  He  spoke  to  his  chauffeur,  then 
stepped  to  the  running  board  and  shook  him  gently 
by  the  shoulder  until  his  eyes  opened. 

As  he  journeyed  homeward  thoughts  of  Rita  sang 
through  his  mind.  Yesterday  morning  he  had  called 
life  monotonous.  Yesterday  morning!  He  had  not 
even  met  her  then !  He  had  come  to  her  house  a  few 
hours  since,  all  but  a  stranger.  Of  those  who  were 
there  he  had  known  her  least.  How  long  ago  that 
seemed ! 

Life  monotonous?  Life's  little  periods  of  dullness 
were  nothing  but  a  background,  like  the  gray  wall  of 
a  gallery  against  which  splendid  pictures  show  more 
splendid  still.  In  the  gallery  of  his  life  there  hung 
but  one  picture  now.  Rita!  Rita  of  the  golden 
voice!  Rita,  young,  brilliant,  famous,  beautiful,  all 
that  was  desirable !  Rita,  who  in  one  splendid  blind 
ing  flash  had  let  him  know  she  cared  for  him !  For 
him! 


66  RITA  COVENTRY 

He  tried  to  conjure  up  her  likeness,  to  visualize 
her  face,  but  the  features  at  which  he  had  so 
lately  gazed  in  adoration  would  not  come  into  focus 
for  him  now.  In  his  mind  he  could  see  her  strong 
little  hands,  her  tapering  arms,  her  shoulders;  and 
he  could  see  the  colour  of  her:  the  pallor  of  her  skin, 
the  red  of  her  lips,  the  glistening  white  of  her  even 
little  teeth,  the  shimmering  black  of  her  hair,  the 
deep  blue  of  her  eyes;  but  try  as  he  would,  he  could 
not  harmonize  these  elements  and  make  them  blend 
into  one  clear  and  satisfying  image. 

The  failure  disappointed  him.  It  was  that  way 
sometimes,  though,  when  one  tried  to  think  how 
certain  people  looked.  Why,  he  wondered?  Why 
was  it  that  the  likeness  of  one  person  should  be 
vague  when  a  perfect  picture  of  another  could  be 
summoned  to  the  mind  at  will?  Take,  for  example, 
Alice.  He  could  always  make  himself  see  Alice.  He 
had  only  to  think  of  her.  He  could  see  her  now  al 
most  as  clearly  as  though  she  stood  before  him  in 
the  flesh. 

Alice!  His  heart  sank.  There  was  a  situation  to 
be  faced!  That  couldn't  go  on.  He  must  find  some 
way  to  break  with  her.  Cruel?  Yes.  But  he  had 
not  willed  it  so.  It  was  life.  Life  was  cruel ;  crueler 
to  women  than  to  men;  it  ought  not  to  be  so,  but 
it  was. 

How  was  the  thing  to  be  managed?  Alice  was  so 
sweet;  she  needed  him  so.  What  would  become  of 
her?  Like  a  black  cloud  the  sense  of  his  responsi- 


RITA  COVENTRY  67 

bility,  the  responsibility  he  had  always  striven  to 
avoid,  rolled  down  upon  him. 

But  this  was  no  time  to  be  wrestling  with  the 
problem  of  Alice.  It  was  a  problem  to  be  met  in 
the  full  light  of  day,  when  he  was  at  his  best.  For 
the  present  he  must  put  Alice  out  of  his  mind.  He 
did  put  her  out  of  his  mind;  over  and  over  again  he 
put  her  out;  he  perspired  with  the  effort  of  it. 
But  always  she  came  back.  Through  mental  doors 
of  which  he  had  no  knowledge  until  they  opened  at 
her  touch,  she  reappeared  and  reappeared,  a  silent, 
gentle,  terribly  insistent  ghost. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A ISING  at  nine  next  morning,  Parrish  felt 
that  he  had  visited  the  boundaries  of  sleep 
but  had  not  for  a  single  moment  crossed 
them.  He  had  lain  in  his  bed  with  eyes  closed,  his 
mind  whirling  in  a  wild  but  not  unpleasant  phantas 
magoria,  neither  real  nor  dream.  Having  bathed, 
dressed,  and  breakfasted  he  appraised  his  feelings. 
He  was  not  fatigued,  but  felt  upon  the  contrary  a 
slight  exhilaration,  like  that  of  one  who  in  the  morn 
ing  continues  to  be  buoyed  up  by  last  night's  alcohol. 
As  he  was  about  to  leave  his  apartment  the  tele 
phone  rang.  Of  course  it  would  be  Alice.  He  did 
not  want  to  talk  with  Alice  now.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  have  I  to  say  he  had  left  for  the  office.  Yet 
somehow  he  did  not  want  to  do  that,  either.  It  did 
not  seem  fair,  and  he  wished  to  be  as  fair  with  Alice 
as  the  circumstances  would  permit.  Besides,  was 
there  not  a  chance  of  its  being  Rita?  Only  the  faint 
est  shadow  of  a  chance,  to  be  sure,  but — —  He  had 
a  vision  of  her  sitting  in  that  pretty  bed  of  hers  with 
a  telephone  instrument  in  her  hands.  Suppose  she 
had  awakened  thinking  of  him,  and  was  calling  up 
just  to  say  good  morning! 

Quickly  he  turned  back  and  answered. 


RITA  COVENTRY  69 

"Good  morning,  dear/' 

Of  course  he  had  known  it  would  be  Alice.  She 
wanted,  as  usual,  to  chat. 

"  I  hope  you  had  a  good  time  last  night?" 
"Oh,  good  enough." 
"The  prints  were  nice?" 

«  \7  » 

Yes. 

"A  large  collection?" 

For  some  curious  reason  he  thought  of  Busini. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  to-night,"  he  said.  "We'll 
go  out  to  dinner.  I  must  run  now.  I'm  short  of 
time." 

"I'll  see  you  about  five?" 

"No,  I  have  an  appointment  late  in  the  afternoon. 
I'll  not  get  there  much  before  seven." 

"Earlier  if  you  can,"  she  said  in  that  sweet  voice 
with  its  faint  note  of  wistfulness. 

"Yes — of  course."  As  quickly  as  he  could  he  ter 
minated  the  conversation. 

Ah!  Now  he  knew  what  had  brought  Busini  into 
his  mind.  A  phrase  used  by  Alice  had  recalled  the 
parting  utterance  of  the  Italian:  "A  large  collec 
tion." 

Last  night  he  had  sensed  an  indirection  without 
grasping  its  significance.  Stupid  of  him!  Yet  in 
fairness  to  himself,  how  could  he  have  understood  it 
then?  Busini  had,  at  that  juncture,  foreseen  more 
than  he  himself  would  have  dared  to  foresee,  and  had 
prophesied  in  sneering  parable.  Not  very  flattering, 
certainly,  to  be  likened  to  one  carelessly  selected 


70  RITA  COVENTRY 

print  out  of  a  portfolio-full!  And  as  to  the  double 
meaning  in  that  reference  to  Rita's  "collection" — that 
only  showed  how  far  a  jealous  man  could  stoop. 

Jealousy!  That  clearly  was  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all.  Perhaps  there  was  a  certain  amount  of  truth 
in  the  gossip  connecting  Rita's  name  with  that  of  the 
conductor,  but  however  that  might  be,  it  was  self- 
evident  that  she  had  discarded  him — what  other 
meaning  could  one  read  into  her  retort  to  him  as  he 
was  leaving  her  house?  She  had  answered  his  par 
able  in  kind,  telling  him  that  when  she  found  an  un 
worthy  item  in  her  collection  she  got  rid  of  it  at  once, 
and  she  had  pointed  the  shaft  with  a  good-night. 
That  barb  must  have  lacerated! 

What  if  some  of  these  tales  were  true?  What  if  it 
were  true  that  Rita  had  cruised  the  Mediterranean  in 
the  royal  yacht?  What  if,  as  they  said,  she  had  used 
the  private  car  of  Tilghman  Keppler?  What  of  it? 
In  one  sense  was  not  all  that  to  her  credit?  By  her 
gifts  she  had  lifted  herself  from  obscurity  and  made 
herself  a  personage,  with  the  prerogatives  of  a  per 
sonage.  She  was  too  big  to  play  the  game  accord 
ing  to  the  rules  laid  down  for  ordinary  women.  She 
could  make  her  own  rules.  Moreover,  these  stories 
concerning  her  supposed  love  affairs  were  always 

based  on  rumour  alone.     It  was  "They  say 

"A     friend     of     mine     tells     me "I     have 

heard—  And  it  was  not,  upon  the  whole,  harsh 

gossip,  but  rather  amiable,  or  even  hopeful.  People 
talked  about  her,  but  they  were  proud  to  know  her — 


RITA  COVENTRY  7, 

prouder,  it  sometimes  seemed,  because  of  these  very 
stories.  She  was  sought  after  by  the  aristocracy  of 
brains  and  achievement. 

She  herself  was  frank  enough.  What  had  she  said 
to  him  last  night?  "I  have  had  all  the  follies."  A 
confession,  surely,  but  one  showing  in  what  light  she 
looked  upon  the  past.  No  sentimental  adventure, 
he  took  it,  had  ever  seriously  scarred  her  heart. 
Just  affairs — follies.  Busini,  for  instance.  If  she 
had  ever  cared  deeply  for  Busini  she  could  not  have 
dismissed  him  last  night  so  cavalierly.  As  for  the 
King,  it  was  policy  for  an  opera  singer  to  be  gracious 
to  a  king;  or  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  any  very  rich 
man  who  was  a  patron  of  the  arts — men  like  Her 
mann  Krauss  and  Tilghman  Keppler. 

In  his  own  case,  praise  heaven,  there  could  be  no 
such  motive!  He  and  Rita  were  merely  man  and 
woman.  It  was  as  a  woman,  not  as  a  prima  donna, 
that  she  had  shown  herself  to  him — a  woman  fear 
less,  eager,  glorious.  More  than  that,  they  met  as 
man  and  woman  seldom  meet,  on  an  absolutely  equal 
footing.  There  would  be  no  raking  up  of  bygones 
on  either  side.  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead. 
They  had  found  each  other.  Life  was  all  future, 
now,  for  both  of  them.  With  such  radiant  reflections 
his  mind  was  filled  as  he  headed  for  his  office. 

On  his  way  home  that  afternoon,  as  upon  the  day 
before,  he  found  spring  seething  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Twice  in  the  course  of  his  march  uptown  he  stopped : 


72  RITA  COVENTRY 

first  at  a  florist's,  where  he  selected  a  great  sheaf  of 
roses  for  Rita;  then  at  his  haberdasher's — for  at 
times  the  human,  like  the  feathered  male,  is  fain  to 
celebrate  with  brilliant  plumage. 

Beyond  the  surging  sidewalk  mob  he  saw,  as  he 
left  the  shop,  a  green-and-yellow  bus  go  lumbering 
down  the  street.  It  was  a  new  bus  shining  with 
fresh  paint,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  huge 
double-decked  flower  box  abloom  with  pretty  faces 
under  pretty  hats.  A  flash  of  blue  and  silver  amid 
the  swifter  moving  traffic  near  the  centre  of  the 
street  drew  his  eye  to  a  bright  roadster  which  by  the 
look  of  it  might  have  emerged  a  moment  since  from 
behind  a  plate-glass  show  window.  The  unaccom 
panied  young  woman  at  the  wheel,  so  consciously 
debonair,  had  also  that  appearance  of  fashionable 
costly  freshness. 

"Behold  us — spring  models!"  car  and  driver 
seemed  to  chorus. 

,  There  was  something  very  nice  about  a  roadster. 
It  occupied  a  place  in  motordom  not  filled  by  any 
other  type  of  car.  He  would  have  to  get  a  roadster 
after  things  picked  up  a  little  in  the  Street. 

"Taxi?"  invited  the  chauffeur  of  a  prowling  pub 
lic  vehicle. 

Glancing  up,  Parrish  saw  that  the  cab,  though  by 
no  means  new,  was  resplendent  with  varnish  freshly 
put  on. 

Spring!  And  Rita!  But  he  would  not  hear  from 
Rita  until  six. 


RITA  COVENTRY  73 

Half-past  five  found  him  in  his  library  sitting  by 
the  desk  on  which  the  telephone  reposed.  There 
wasn't  any  news  in  the  papers  any  more.  A  weak 
market  was  no  news  certainly;  and  for  the  rest  there 
was  only  the  usual  assortment  of  robberies,  murders, 
fires,  motor  accidents,  divorces.  He  dipped  into 
several  editorials,  but  found  no  interest  in  them. 
Even  his  favourite  frivolous  column,  Peek-a-Boo, 
yielded  him  but  a  single  smile. 

He  threw  the  paper  aside.  Now  at  any  instant 
the  telephone  would  ring.  Was  Rita  sitting  wait 
ing,  too,  he  wondered?  Would  she  call  him  exactly 
at  the  appointed  time? 

Ah,  six!  The  clock  was  striking.  He  reflected 
that  women  were  sometimes  peculiar  in  these  mat 
ters.  What  was  it  about  them  that  made  them  like 
to  keep  men  waiting?  Even  Alice,  least  artful  of 
her  sex,  had  kept  him  waiting  once  or  twice  when  he 
first  knew  her.  Woman  stuff!  Well,  if  it  pleased 
Rita  to  make  him  wait  a  little,  by  all  means  let 
her  do  it;  he  could  endure  it,  though  punctuality 
was,  in  his  eyes,  one  of  the  high  virtues.  It  hadn't 
taken  Alice  long  to  find  that  out.  Rita,  too,  would 
learn  better  when  they  had  known  each  other  for  a 
while. 

At  brief  intervals  his  eyes  lifted  to  the  face  of  the 
grandfather's  clock  which  had  for  so  many  years  told 
off  the  hours  at  Blenkinswood.  The  hands  were 
bending  to  a  new  angle  now.  He  wondered  whether, 
on  that  sleepy  old  plantation,  time  had  ever  dragged 


74  RITA  COVENTRY 

itself  away  so  slowly.  Perhaps  the  clock  was  fast. 
He  compared  it  with  his  watch.  No,  it  was  right. 

He  rose  and  paced  the  rug.  Something  must 
have  happened  to  delay  her.  She  was  a  busy  per 
son.  Innumerable  things  might  have  come  up- 
unavoidable  things.  She  might  have  callers  and  be 
waiting  eagerly  for  them  to  go.  Or  again  it  might 
be  that  she  was  one  of  those  women  who  are  by 
nature  careless  about  time.  He  had  heard  it  said 
that  artistic  people  were  oftentimes  that  way.  To 
her,  six  might  mean  merely  the  general  neighbourhood 
of  six.  Perhaps  she  was  now  having  tea — she  had 
told  him  she  never  dined  on  evenings  when  she  was 
to  sing.  Or  perhaps  she  was  adding  the  last  touches 
to  her  toilet — she  had  to  go  to  Fremecourt's  birthday 
party  afterward.  How  lovely  she  would  look!  He 
wished  that  he  might  see  her  before  she  went  to 
the  party.  He  wished  he  knew  Fremecourt.  He 
had  never  liked  that  big  basso.  He  looked  so 
gross. 

Continuing  to  pace  the  rug  he  became  engaged 
with  the  pattern,  following  it  with  his  feet.  There 
was  a  place  in  the  corner  where  he  had  to  take  a  short 
step  or  else  go  over  into  the  border.  In  his  present 
frame  of  mind  this  annoyed  him.  In  the  back  of  his 
thoughts  was  an  incoherent  wish  that  the  rug  had 
been  a  little  shorter  or  a  little  longer  to  match  the 
length  of  his  stride. 

Could  she  have  misunderstood  the  arrangement? 
Could  she  have  thought  he  was  to  call  her?  No,  it 


RITA  COVENTRY  75 

had  been  her  proposal.    "I'll  telephone"— those  were 
her  words. 

A  promise  was  a  promise.  What  would  become 
of  business — his  brokerage  business,  say — if  every 
one  were  careless  about  verbal  agreements?  A  per 
son's  word  ought  to  be  as  good  as  a  promissory  note. 
Here  it  was  seventeen  minutes  after  six!  Some 
thing  must  be  the  matter.  If  she  did  not  telephone 
by  half-past  six  he  would  ring  her  up.  He  took  the 
telephone  directory  and  looked  for  her  name.  Three 
Coventrys  were  listed,  but  she  was  not  among  them. 

As  the  half  hour  struck  he  called  Information  and 
asked  for  Rita's  number.  But  he  did  not  get  it.  It 
was  a  private  wire,  Information  said;  the  number 
could  not  be  divulged.  When  he  tried  to  argue  the 
switchboard  sibyl  cut  him  off. 

Either  Larry  Merrick  or  Hermann  Krauss  would 
undoubtedly  be  able  to  tell  him  the  number,  but  for 
some  obscure  self-conscious  reason  he  did  not  wish 
to  ask  them.  He  would  do  it  if  he  had  to,  but  would 
try  Mrs.  Perm's  first. 

A  maid  answered.  Mrs.  Fernis  was  out,  she  said. 
He  requested  her  to  look  up  Rita's  number  on  Mrs. 
Fernis's  telephone  list. 

Well!  At  last  he  had  found  a  girl  who  was  oblig 
ing  and  intelligent!  She  gave  him  the  number, 
whereupon  he  thanked  her  quickly  and  hung  up  the 
receiver  before  she  had  a  chance  to  ask  his  name. 
Now  he  would  find  out  what  the  matter  was! 

But  he  did  not  find  out.     Pierre,  the  butler,  who 


76  RITA  COVENTRY 

answered  Rita's  telephone,  informed  him  blandly 
that  mademoiselle  was  not  at  home. 

"How  long  since  she  went  out?"  Parrish  was 
ashamed  of  the  question,  but  he  burned  to  know. 

"  I  really  can't  say,  sir.     Is  there  any  message?" 

"No,"  growled  Parrish.  "Or  rather — yes.  Ask 
mademoiselle  to  call  me  up  whenever  she  gets  in." 
For  safety's  sake  he  gave  his  number. 

"Mademoiselle  will  be  late,  sir." 

"I  know  she'll  be  late.  It  doesn't  matter  how 
late  she  is.  Kindly  give  her  my  message." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  disliked  that  blond  young  servant.  Probably 
he  did  know  when  Rita  went  out.  It  stood  to  reason 
that  he  knew.  But  trust  a  butler  not  to  tell  you 
anything,  whether  there  is  anything  to  tell  or  not. 

It  was  almost  seven.  He  was  due  at  Alice's,  yet 
here  he  was,  not  even  dressed  for  dinner.  He  went 
to  his  room.  He  did  not  feel  like  dressing.  He  did 
not  feel  like  going  out.  He  did  not  feel  like  seeing 
people.  He  did  not  feel  like  talking  to  anybody. 
But  he  must  hurry.  If  he  didn't  get  out  of  here 
pretty  soon  Alice  would  be  calling  up. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  RIVING  at  Alice's  building  he  did  not  go 
to  her  apartment,  but  had  the  hall  man  tele 
phone  to  her  that  he  was  waiting.  Almost 
immediately  she  descended. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  up?"  she  asked  as  they 
drove  away. 

He  made  his  lateness  the  excuse. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  worry,"  she  said. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  why?" 

"You're  usually  so  punctual." 

"Well,  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  was  delayed.  I'm 
sorry."  His  tone  was  almost  brusque.  He  was  gazing 
straight  ahead  through  the  front  window,  but  was 
aware  that  she  turned  to  look  at  him  as  she  replied 
gently: 

"Of  course  I  know  that." 

"Why  are  you  finding  fault  then?" 

"Finding  fault?"  she  repeated,  astonished  and 
hurt.  "I'm  not  finding  fault,  dear.  It's  only  that 
you  mean  so  much  to  me,  and  with  all  these  accidents 
they  have  in  the  streets- 
She  gave  a  little  shudder  and  left  the  sentence  un 
finished.  He  was  ashamed. 

"  I  ought  to  have  let  you  know  I  was  delayed,"  he 

77 


78  RITA  COVENTRY 

said  in  a  kinder  tone,  still  without  looking  at  her, 
"but  I  didn't  want  to  take  the  time  to  telephone.  I 
was  thinking  we  could  have  a  quick  dinner  and  go  to 
a  show.  They  say  this  new  thing  'Gladys'  is  pretty 
good." 

"Oh— the  theatre?" 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  pleasant,  yes."  Then  he 
acknowledged  the  disappointment  he  detected  in  her 
voice  by  adding,  "  But  if  you'd  rather  not  we  don't 
have  to." 

"No;  I  want  to  do  whatever  you  want,"  she  put  in 
quickly.  "  I  just  thought — you've  been  away,  and 
all — 1  thought  we  could  go  back  after  dinner,  and  you 
could  smoke  and  we'd  talk.  1  got  such  a  lovely  pres 
ent  to-day,  too.  I  want  to  show  it  to  you.  Mar*garet 
sent  me  the  sweetest  picture  of  herself  and  the  chil 
dren.  You  know  the  little  girl  is  named  for  me." 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"And  it's  getting  on  toward  eight,"  she  continued. 
"We'd  be  late  for  the  theatre.  But  if  you— 

"Doesn't  matter  how  late  you  are  for  a  musical 
show." 

"No,  certainly  not;  and  we  needn't  eat  much." 

"Still,"   he  said,   "if  you   really  don't   want  to 
» 

"No,  no!  I'm  glad  to,  honestly.  Just  so  we're 
together  I  don't  care."  She  touched  his  hand.  "Oh, 
Dick,  you  don't  know  how  nice  it  is  to  see  you ! " 

"  It's  nice  to  see  you,  too,"  he  returned,  pressing 
her  fingers.  Then,  grateful  to  her  for  giving  him  his 


RITA  COVENTRY  79 

way,  as  he  had  known  she  would,  and  feeling  that  he 
had  not  said  enough,  he  went  on  apologetically:  "I 
can't  imagine  it's  being  nice  to  see  me,  though.  I 
know  I'm  an  utterly  unsatisfactory  person  to  be 
with  this  evening,  Alice.  I'm  as  restless  as  a  cat. 
That's  why  I  thought  of  the  theatre — something 
bright  to  take  our  minds  off  things." 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there?"  she  asked 
tenderly. 

"Oh,  no;  nothing  special."  He  sighed.  "Ap 
parently  there  just  isn't  any  bottom  to  this  market. 
And  a  lot  of  little  things  have  bothered  me  to-day. 
You  know  how  it  goes  sometimes." 

Feeling  as  he  did,  he  found  it  pleasant,  after  all,  to 
be  with  Alice — someone  to  whom  he  could  grumble, 
even  though  he  could  not  grumble  about  the  one 
thing  that  was  on  his  mind. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you."  Even  more  definitely 
than  her  words,  her  eyes,  with  their  expression  of 
solicitude,  informed  him  of  that  wish. 

"You  do,"  he  assured  her  honestly,  looking  into 
her  face  with  a  peculiar  and  not  too  happy  little 
smile.  "You  help  a  lot,  my  dear.  You're  a  mighty 
comfortable  person  to  be  with." 

And  she  was.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman  who, 
when  the  waiter  hands  her  a  menu,  lays  it  down  and 
says  to  her  escort:  "You  order,  please." 

The  head  coat-room  boy  at  the  Tuileries,  the 
quiet  and  fashionable  French  restaurant  at  which 


8o  RITA  COVENTRY 

they  dined,  possessed  a  gift  for  obtaining,  at  the  last 
moment,  seats  for  the  most  popular  theatrical  per 
formances,  the  one  provision  being  that  the  pur 
chaser  should  be  willing  to  pay  well  for  the  service. 
And  the  mere  fact  that  one  dined  at  the  Tuileries  was 
proof  of  willingness  to  pay. 

The  place  was  dedicated  to  the  affluent,  critical, 
and  self-indulgent.  Two  could  dine  excellently  at 
the  Tuileries  for  approximately  twenty-five  dollars 
—this  sum  including,  in  this  post-Volstead  period,  a 
bright  yellow  beverage  at  twelve  dollars  a  quart, 
which  was  served  only  to  guests  known  to  the  man 
agement,  and  was  mentioned  with  wise  glints  of  the 
eye,  by  the  waiters,  as  "special  cider,"  although  it 
tasted  so  precisely  like  sauterne  that  it  was  sometimes 
ordered  by  that  name  by  those  lacking  a  full  degree 
of  delicacy. 

The  dining  room  at  the  Tuileries  was  not  too 
large,  and  was  decorated  with  a  restrained  ele 
gance  which  knew  neither  red  nor  gold  nor  marble. 
The  tables  stood  upon  soft  carpet,  not  too  close 
together;  the  chairs  were  comfortable,  and  the 
cushioned  benches  against  the  walls  more  com 
fortable  still;  the  cuisine  was  irreproachable,  the 
waiters  sympathetic  as  only  the  most  expert 
French  waiters  know  how  to  be,  and  among  the 
guests  were  always  to  be  seen  celebrities  and  beauti 
fully  costumed  women.  And  best  of  all,  one  paid 
not  only  for  what  one  got  but  for  what  one  was 
spared.  There  was  no  orchestra. 


RITA  COVENTRY  81 

A  few  years  earlier  Parrish  could  have  bought  a 
box  with  seats  for  six  for  what  he  gave  to-night  for 
two  seats  for  "Gladys."  But  his  two  seats  were  in 
the  third  row  on  the  aisle.  No  one  knew  better  than 
the  coat-room  boy  where  patrons  of  the  Tuileries 
preferred  to  sit. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  theatre  the  first  act  was 
over,  but  once  the  curtain  rose  they  had  no  difficulty 
in  picking  up  the  thread  of  story. 

The  star,  a  pretty  Broadway  favourite,  figured  as 
a  Russian  grand  duchess  who  had  escaped  the  revo 
lution  and  come  to  New  York  with  her  guardian,  a 
middle-aged  prince  with  comic  legs.  Incognito,  the 
two  were  working  in  a  restaurant,  he  as  a  waiter,  she 
as  a  kitchen  maid.  Poor  though  they  were,  they  had 
brought  with  them  elaborate  wardrobes,  and  they 
were  thus  able  to  lead  a  dual  life,  going  at  times  into 
the  fashionable  world  to  which  their  titles  gave  them 
access. 

A  young  man  with  wavy  golden  hair,  a  tenor  voice, 
and  wealthy  parents,  fell  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
kitchen  maid,  but  did  not  recognize  her  when  he  met 
her  in  black  velvet  at  a  ball;  nor  did  the  lank  society 
woman  recognize  the  prince  of  the  night  before  in  the 
waiter  who  spilled  things  on  her  and  tripped  and  fell 
with  trays  of  dishes. 

These  confusions  of  identity  lasted  through  sev 
eral  scenes  enriched  with  songs  and  specialties,  but 
were  cleared  up  at  the  end  when  the  kitchen  maid, 
having  fled  her  sweetheart,  was  suddenly  revealed  to 


82  RITA  COVENTRY 

him  standing  at  the  head  of  an  impressive  flight  of 
stairs,  up  centre,  in  a  prismatic  gown  which  was  the 
climax  of  the  show — a  gown  which  took  the  honours 
of  the  evening  from  the  girl,  the  librettist,  the  com 
poser,  and  even  the  Italian  master  of  melody  with 
whose  famous  operatic  themes  the  composer  was  ap 
parently  familiar. 

As  the  sumptuous  garment  descended  the  stairs 
to  meet  the  lover,  the  truth  burst  upon  him.  The 
person  it  contained  and  embellished  was  of  royal 
blood  and  therefore  fit  to  be  accepted  on  terms  of 
social  equality  by  any  American  family,  howevei 
wealthy.  The  young  man  put  his  arm  around  the 
gown,  and  from  the  careful  way  he  did  it  the  audi 
ence  knew  that  he  would  cherish  it  as  long  as  that 
show  should  live. 

At  least  so  far  as  Parrish  was  concerned,  the  even 
ing's  offering  had  served  its  deadening  purpose.  His 
eyes  had  been  engaged  with  bright  stage  pictures,  his 
ears  with  trifling  jests  and  melodies,  his  mind  with 
nothing.  But  as  his  limousine  nosed  its  way  cau 
tiously  through  the  glittering  inferno  of  the  after- 
theatre  streets,  reverberating  with  the  snarls  of  angry 
motor  horns  and  the  shrill  whistle-blasts  of  traffic 
policemen,  he  began  to  think  again.  He  did  not 
want  to,  but  he  could  not  help  it. 

"You'll  come  up  for  a  little  while?"  Alice  sug 
gested  hopefully  as  they  turned  into  the  lofty  canon 
of  Park  Avenue,  with  its  double  asphalt  trail. 


RITA  COVENTRY  83 

"It's  pretty  late." 

"  How  would  you  like  me  to  fix  you  some  bacon  and 
eggs?" 

"No;  nothing  to  eat,  thanks." 

"You  look  tired." 

"I  am,  rather." 

"Then  you're  right — you'd  better  go  home  and  to 
bed.  I  did  want  you  to  see  the  photograph  of 
Margaret  and  the  children,  though.  It's  so  sweet." 

"How  is  Margaret?" 

He  asked  the  question  not  so  much  because  of  in 
terest  in  her  married  sister,  whom  he  had  never  seen, 
as  to  keep  her  talking  of  matters  unrelated  to  him. 

"I'm  worried  about  her.  She's  all  run  down. 
George's  business  keeps  him  tied  up  so  he  can't  take 
long  vacations,  and  Margaret  won't  go  away  for  any 
length  of  time  without  him.  I  ask  her  here — time 
and  again  I've  asked  her — but  there's  always  some 
reason  why  she  thinks  she  can't  come.  If  it  isn't 
George  it's  the  children.  Instead,  she's  always  urg 
ing  me  to  come  out  there." 

"Naturally,"  he  said,  "when  she's  so  fond  of  you. 
Of  course  you  haven't  been  home  often."  And  as 
the  car  drew  near  her  door  he  added:  "I  believe  I 
will  stop  in  for  a  few  minutes." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  contentment. 

"I  didn't  want  to  urge  you,"  she  told  him,  "but 
I'd  have  been  disappointed  if  you  hadn't  stopped  in. 
I've  felt  lately  as  if  things  weren't— I  don't  know- 
as  if  you  were  different  somehow." 


84  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Nonsense,"  he  said.  He  was  glad  the  car  was 
stopping. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  I've  felt." 

"You  shouldn't  get  ideas  like  that,"  he  said. 

Going  up  in  the  elevator  he  made  small  talk  about 
the  musical  comedy.  She  gave  him  her  latchkey, 
and  when  he  unlocked  the  door  preceded  him  into 
the  living  room,  turning  on  the  lamps.  Then,  as  he 
had  slipped  off  his  overcoat,  she  came  and  led  him 
to  "his"  chair,  where  she  made  him  comfortable, 
tucking  a  pillow  behind  him  as  a  trained  nurse  might 
for  an  invalid;  after  which  she  brought  the  photo 
graph  and,  placing  it  in  his  hands,  perched  upon  the 
arm  of  the  chair  where  she  could  look  at  it  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Very  nice,"  said  he. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  sweeter  picture?" 

"Don't  believe  so."  He  continued  to  look  at  it. 
"  Margaret  isn't  so  pretty  as  you  are." 

"Oh,  isn't  she,  though!  You  wouldn't  say  that  if 
you  could  see  her.  She's  a  regular  little  madonna. 
And  did  you  ever  see  two  such  darling  children? 
Georgie's  such  a  serious  little  thing,  and  little  Alice 
—isn't  she  adorable?  Just  look  at  her  hair,  too — 
naturally  curly." 

"Yes,  very  pretty." 

She  rested  her  cheek  against  his  temple,  gazing  at 
the  photograph.  Presently  he  stirred  a  little,  dislodg 
ing  her  from  the  position,  and,  turning  his  head, 
looked  up  at  her  asking; 


RITA  COVENTRY  85 

"You  say  Margaret  has  been  urging  you  to  come 
out  and  visit?" 

"Oh,  she's  always  doing  it.  Even  now  that  I  have 
my  own  apartment  in  New  York,  she  and  George 
insist  that  their  home  is  really  my  home — the  dears! 
And  of  course  in  a  way  it  is." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  agreed;  then:  "Well,  why 
don't  you  take  a  little  run  out  there?" 

"  But  I  was  out  there  last  fall,"  she  answered  al 
most  defensively. 

"For  two  or  three  days." 

"A  week,"  she  corrected.  "And  I've  been  there 
three  other  times,  remember — I  mean  since  I  met 
you."  She  had  a  way  of  dating  time  in  that  fashion. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  gently  persistent,  "if  your 
sister  isn't  very  well—  He  left  the  sentence  un 

finished. 

Alice  sighed. 

"Of  course  I've  been  thinking  about  that,"  she 
said.  "  I  do  want  to  see  them  all,  and  I  hate  to  have 
Margaret  feeling  hurt  because  I  don't  come  oftener. 
And  little  Alice — being  her  godmother— 

"Yes,"  he  encouraged,  "naturally  she  wants  to 
see  more  of  her  Aunc  Alice." 

She  nodded. 

"And  Georgie's  so  sweet,  too.  They're  the  dearest 
pair  of  youngsters!  But"— again  she  sighed— 
"well,  I  guess  you  know  why  I  don't  want  to  go, 
don't  you?"  She  straightened,  looking  at  him  with 
eyes  luminously  tender. 


86  RITA  COVENTRY 

"You  find  it  dull?"  he  suggested,  wishing  to  fend 
off  the  declaration. 

"Oh,  no.  It's  not  half  bad.  They  have  a  pretty 
house  and  the  people  are  nice — at  least  they  seem  so  to 
me,  being  a  Middle  Westerner.  Of  course  they  aren't 
like  New  Yorkers;  perhaps  you'd  think  them  provin 
cial;  but  they're  mighty  comfortable  to  be  with." 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  In  fact,  I've  often  wondered  that 
you  didn't  spend  more  time  with  your  sister." 

"You've  wondered?"  She  looked  surprised  and 
somewhat  hurt.  "You  think  I  ought  to?  Surely 
you  know  why  I  haven't,  Dick.  Why,  at  first  you 
didn't  want  me  to  go!  You  didn't  like  it  if  I  even 
spoke  of  it.  You  said  you'd  be  so  lonesome.  You 
told  me— 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  been  very  selfish,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  wanted  to  be  with  you  as  much  as  you 
wanted  me.  You  know  that,  dear." 

"Perhaps,"  said  he  sombrely,  "we've  both  been 
thinking  too  much  of  what  we  wanted." 

"Not  you.     It's  no  fault  of  yours  if  I— 

"Yes,  it  is.  I  have  no  right  to  come  between  you 
and  your  only  sister." 

"Come  between  us?"  she  repeated,  astonished. 
"Why,  you  haven't  done  anything  like  that !  Marga 
ret  and  I  adore  each  other." 

"She's  hurt  because  you  don't  go  oftener." 

"Not  hurt,  exactly.  It's  just  that  she — she  misses 
me,  because  after  Father  and  Mother  died  we  were 
always  together." 


RITA  COVENTRY  87 

"  Until  you  came  East,"  he  added.  "That's  where 
my  responsibility  begins." 

"  But  I  didn't  have  to  stay  East  if  I  didn't  want  to." 

"That's  not  the  point."  He  gazed  at  her  gravely. 
"Alice,  I  think  you  ought  to  take  a  run  out  there.  It 
would  probably  make  Margaret  feel  better  if  she 
could  just  have  a  look  at  you." 

"I  thought  I'd  go  early  in  the  summer." 

"You  ought  to  go  right  now." 

"Now?    Oh,  I  couldn't!" 

"Why  not?" 

"A  lot  of  things  I  have  to  do." 

"What?" 

"Well,  I  want  to  clean  house — and  I've  ordered 
some  clothes." 

"Nonsense!    Those  things  will  wait." 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you,"  she  declared;  "not 
when  you're  feeling  the  way  you  are." 

"  I ? "  he  said,  taken  aback.     "Why,  I 'm  all  right." 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"Something's  been  troubling  you." 

"Oh,  business,"  said  he,  "but  that's  only  another 
reason  why  you  might  better  go  now.  I  can't  tell 
when  I'll  be  called  out  of  town  again.  I'm  going  to 
be  frightfully  rushed  in  the  next  few  weeks.  If  you 
were  out  there  with  your  sister  I'd  know  you  were 
all  right.  I'd  know  you  weren't  waiting  around  for 
me." 

"But,  Dick  dear,"  she  interposed,  "you  mustn't 
feel  that  way  about  me.  That  means  I'm  a  drag  on 


88  RITA  COVENTRY 

you — the  very  thing  above  all  others  that  I  neve 
want  to  be." 

"No,  not  a  drag,"  he  corrected.  "But  honestl} 
Alice,  I  won't  be  happy  until  this  thing  is  set  right. 

"Then  I'll  go,  of  course." 

"That's  the  girl!    Now  the  question  is,  when?" 

"Next  week  sometime?" 

"Why  wait  until  next  week?  Why  not  now- 
to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow?"  The  idea  seemed  to  take  he 
breath  away. 

"Yes,  the  sooner  the  better.  The  sooner  you  g 
the  sooner  you'll  be  back." 

"But  I- 

"To  please  me,"  he  urged  in  a  final  appeal  th 
effectiveness  of  which  he  well  knew. 

"Well,  then " 

She  was  assenting,  though  a  little  doubtfull> 
At  once  he  became  expansive. 

"Spendid!"  He  threw  an  arm  about  her  waist 
"I'll  stop  and  get  your  tickets  on  the  way  down  i; 
the  morning.  You  can  go  in  the  late  afternoon  an< 
be  in  Cleveland  early  next  day.  You'd  better  wir 
them  to-night  that  you're  coming.  I'll  be  aroun< 
to  drive  you  to  the  station."  Then,  perhaps  becaus 
she  looked  a  trifle  dazed,  causing  him  to  fear  tha 
she  was  still  uncertain,  he  added  encouragingiv 
"  It's  just  possible  that  I'll  be  going  to  Chicago  again 
and  if  I  do  we  might  arrange  to  meet  on  the  trail 
coming  back." 


RITA  COVENTRY  89 

Immediately  she  brightened. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  lovely!  Maybe  you  could  get 
off  and  come  up  and  meet  Margaret  and  George. 
And  I'd  love  to  have  you  see  the  children.  You 
probably  think  it's  just  because  they're  my  niece  and 
nephew  that  I  talk  so  much  about  them,  but  it's  not. 
They're  really—  Do  you  think  you  could  stop 
of??" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "we'll  see." 

"In  about  a  week,  you  think?" 

"  I  can't  say  surely  yet.  I'll  let  you  know  as  soon 
as  I  know  myself.  The  main  thing  now  is  for  you 
to  get  started.  We  can  fix  up  the  rest  later."  Then 
observing  that  she  looked  cast  down  again,  he  patted 
her  shoulder  reassuringly,  exclaiming  in  a  voice  in 
tended  to  be  stimulating,  "Buck  up,  my  dear! 
Think  how  happy  you're  going  to  make  them  all! 
You  mustn't  be  looking  like  Grief  on  a  monument, 
you  know!" 

"I  shall  miss  you  awfully,"  she  said. 

"No,  no!  You're  going  to  have  a  fine  time. 
You'll  see!  Why,  you  may  meet  some  fellow  out 
there  who'll  make  you  forget  all  about  me." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  things  like  that,  Dick." 

"Why  be  so  hideously  serious,  dear?" 

"Well,  I  am— about  you.  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  joke  about  such  things.  You  know  that  no  one 
else  could  ever— 

"Of  course  I  know."  Again  he  patted  her  shoul 
der. 


90  RITA  COVENTRY 

"I'm  always  thinking  of  you,"  she  went  on. 
"  Every  night  of  my  life  I  pray  for  you  the  same  as 
for  Margaret  and  George  and  the  children." 

"You  sweet  girl!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet;  she  followed,  standing  close 
beside  him  and  looking  up  into  his  face  as  she  asked, 
"Will  you  miss  me?" 

"Of  course." 

"Much?" 

"Lots."  He  kissed  her  lightly.  "Now  it's  time 
for  me  to  be  running  along." 

"Already?" 

"It's  after  twelve." 

She  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Only  five  minutes  after." 

"  Yes,  but  you've  a  busy  day  ahead  of  you,  packing 
and  getting  off.  And  I'm  tired." 

She  made  no  further  effort  to  detain  him.  But  in 
the  hall,  just  as  he  was  leaving,  she  flung  her  arms 
around  him  and  for  a  moment  clung  to  him  like  a 
frightened  child. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WITHIN  the  hour  Parrish,  in  pyjamas  and 
dressing  gown,  was  settled  in  a  comfort 
able  position  on  his  bed.      At  his  back 
were  three  large  pillows,  and  a  good  light  fell  over  his 
shoulder  upon  the  book  which  he  hoped  would  keep 
his  thoughts  engaged  until  Rita's  call  should  come. 
He  had  switched  the  telephone  off  from  his  study  to 
the  extension  instrument  at  his  bedside,  which  he 
could  reach  at  the  first  sound  of  the  bell. 

But  there  would  be  a  long  wait  before  the  bell 
would  ring.  She  had  sung  "Ai'da"  to-night  and 
"Aida"  ran  rather  late,  as  he  remembered  it — until 
about  half-past  eleven.  Then  there  was  all 
that  dark  make-up  to  be  removed  before  she  could 
dress.  That  meant  three  quarters  of  an  hour  at 
least.  By  now  she  was  at  Fremecourt's,  but  she 
would  hardly  be  leaving  there  before  two  hours 
had  passed.  It  would  be  three  or  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  when  she  reached  home  and  got  his 
message. 

But  would  she  get  it?  He  had  been  explicit 
enough  with  Pierre,  certainly;  but  would  Pierre,  in 
passing  on  his  word,  lay  stress  enough  upon  the  fact 
that  he  wished  her  to  call  him  up  regardless  of  the 

9' 


92  RITA  COVENTRY 

hour?  He  lacked  confidence  in  Pierre.  This  busi 
ness  of  communicating  always  through  a  third  per 
son,  and  that  a  butler  who  spoke  usually  in  French, 
was  irritating — irritating  as  the  devil!  So  much  de 
pended  upon  Rita's  understanding  the  messages  he 
left!  It  wasn't  a  mere  case  of  "Call  me  up  some 
day."  He  must  hear  from  her!  He  must!  Worn 
out  as  he  was,  he  felt  he  could  not  sleep  until  he  heard 
her  voice. 

The  large  volume  in  his  hands  was  admirably 
suited  for  ordinary  bedtime  reading.  It  was  the 
first  volume  of  the  memoirs  of  a  British  diplomatist 
who  had  spent  the  past  half  century  in  various  capi 
tals,  and  who  described  in  an  easy  rambling  style 
events  he  had  witnessed  in  those  capitals:  a  book  of 
gilded  gossip  and  anecdote  which  could  be  opened  at 
any  point  and  closed  at  any  point — a  first  essential 
in  a  bedtime  book. 

But  this  was  not,  apparently,  the  kind  of  reading 
Parrish  needed  now.  Time  and  again  he  found  that 
his  eyes  had  traversed  pages  while  his  thoughts  were 
otherwise  engaged.  He  was  neither  reading  coher 
ently  nor  thinking  coherently.  He  would  turn 
back  and  reread,  endeavouring  to  concentrate,  but 
only  to  find  himself  presently  drifting  again  into 
dreamlike  speculations  and  imaginings,  wherein 
he  saw  himself  with  Rita  in  foreign  places  and 
spectacular  surroundings.  Now  they  would  be 
strolling  along  the  borders  of  some  sapphire  lake  in 
the  North  Italian  hills,  now  dining  in  a  brilliant  res- 


RITA  COVENTRY  93 

taurant  at  Monte  Carlo,  now  roaming  the  garden  of 
a  villa  at  Taormina — a  villa  sparkling  white  against 
the  green  mountainside,  with  the  sea  spread  out  be 
low,  and  smoke-plumed  /Etna  lifting  its  white  crest 
through  a  far-away  blue  haze. 

At  two  the  striking  of  the  old  clock  in  the  study 
roused  him.  He  had  been  lying  with  closed  eyes,  the 
open  book  propped  against  his  knees.  Once  more 
he  began  to  read.  There  was  a  description  of  a  ball 
and  supper  at  the  Winter  Palace,  vast  and  beautiful 
apartments  lighted  by  thousands  of  candles — a  noble 
company.  He  seemed  to  see  Rita  there.  Constan 
tinople,  the  Bosphorus,  the  Golden  Horn — a  suc 
cession  of  strange  places,  strange  people,  strange 
happenings,  always  with  Rita  at  his  side. 

Now  they  were  on  the  stage  at  the  opera.  No,  not 
the  opera.  They  were  standing  at  the  prow  of  a 
great  galley  surging  through  a  summer  sea.  Richly 
coloured  sails  bellied  in  the  soft,  sweet  wind.  Rita 
was  dressed  in  trailing  robes  of  white  brocade.  Her 
glorious  dark  hair  was  hanging  about  her  shoulders. 
There  was  music.  She  was  singing  to  him,  but  in  a 
language  he  did  not  know.  The  sailors,  too,  were 
speaking  a  strange  tongue.  He  listened,  spellbound. 

Then  came  Alice.  Sailors  held  her  roughly  by  the 
wrists.  They  were  dragging  her  to  the  ship's  side. 
They  were  going  to  throw  her  into  the  sea !  Rita  was 
not  looking  at  them;  she  did  not  know  what  was 
happening.  He  tried  to  tell  her,  but  she  could  not 
understand.  She  continued  to  sing,  smiling  at  him, 


94  RITA  COVENTRY 

and  while  she  sang  there  was  a  charm  upon  him — he 
was  unable  to  move. 

The  sailors  were  lifting  Alice  now.  Something 
must  be  done  to  save  her.  She  looked  at  him  im 
ploringly,  but  he  stood  horror-stricken,  rooted  to  the 
spot.  He  heard  her  pleading  with  them,  but  when 
he  tried  to  shout  and  stop  them,  he  was  dumb. 

Now  they  were  holding  her  out  over  the  water. 
He  could  see  it  rushing  by  below.  In  a  moment 
she  would  be  gone.  Rita  still  smiled  and  sang  her 
song.  In  agony  he  watched.  What  were  they 
waiting  for?  Ah,  yes,  the  signal !  They  were  await 
ing  the  signal,  which,  he  somehow  knew,  was  to  be 
the  ringing  of  a  bell.  Then  they  would  let  her  fall. 
That  bell  must  not  ring!  Oh,  it  must  not! 

But  it  did  ring,  and  as  he  heard  it  the  whole  scene 
faded  out.  In  an  instant  he  was  wide  awake,  trem 
bling  and  perspiring  with  the  terror  of  that  dream. 

One  thing,  however,  he  knew  he  had  not  dreamed. 
A  bell  had  in  truth  rung.  It  had  awakened  him. 
Even  now  he  seemed  to  hear  the  echo  of  its  last  re 
verberations. 

The  telephone !     Rita! 

He  snatched  the  instrument  from  the  stand  be 
side  his  bed  and  answered. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  silence  on  the  wire. 
Then  came  the  droning  voice  of  the  operator,  "Num 
ber,  please?" 

Without  a  word  he  hung  up  the  receiver. 

Through  the  net  curtains  gently  swaying  in  his 


RITA  COVENTRY  95 

open  windows  he  saw  daylight.  He  squinted  at  the 
little  clock  upon  his  dresser.  Twenty  minutes  to 
eight.  He  heard  his  servant  pass  down  the  hall, 
open  the  front  door,  and  say  good  morning  to  the 
elevator  man,  who  always  brought  the  mail  and 
newspapers.  It  was  the  doorbell  he  had  heard— 
only  the  doorbell. 

He  reached  above  his  head  and  turned  off  the 
reading  light.  As  he  moved,  the  book  of  memoirs 
slipped  from  the  bed  and  fell  with  a  dull  bump  and 
flap  of  leaves  to  the  floor.  One  of  the  tassels  of  his 
dressing  gown  was  digging  into  his  side  where  he  had 
lain  upon  it  as  he  slept.  The  night  was  gone.  An 
other  day  had  dawned;  and  not  a  word  from  Rita. 

For  a  time  he  lay  there  miserable.  He  ached. 
But  he  must  get  up.  There  was  that  infernal  tassel 
to  encourage  him,  and  there  was  so  much  to  be  done 
to-day.  He  must  buy  Alice's  tickets,  go  to  the  office, 
and  come  up  later  to  see  her  off. 

And  Rita — that  matter  must  be  definitely  settled. 
The  waiting,  the  uncertainty,  were  no  longer  to  be 
endured.  He  had  not  known  a  moment's  peace 
since  he  first  laid  eyes  on  Rita.  She  was  driving  him 
mad. 

He  jumped  up,  hurried  through  his  toilet,  bolted  his 
breakfast,  and  went  out.  From  the  Grand  Central 
Station  he  telephoned  to  Alice  that  he  had  secured 
accommodations  on  the  Cleveland  Limited  and 
that  he  would  call  at  six  to  drive  her  to  the  train. 
Then,  anticipating  her,  he  added,  "I'll  come  be- 


96  RITA  COVENTRY 

fore  six  if  I  can,  but  there's  no  telling  about  that 
until  I  get  to  the  office." 

There!    That  much  was  done. 

But,  oh,  this  question  of  Rita !  Why  couldn't  he  see 
through  it?  Generally,  he  felt,  he  understood  women 
and  their  ways.  Certainly  his  friends,  troubled  over 
their  affairs  of  the  heart,  had  come  to  him  often 
enough  with  their  problems;  and  always  he  had  been 
able  to  interpret  and  advise.  Williams,  for  instance, 
when  he  was  in  love  with  that  married  woman  in 
Pawtucket ;  and  Sage,  when  he  was  having  difficulties 
with  his  wife;  and  poor  old  Goodman,  who  only 
needed  to  be  nerved  up  to  propose  to  a  girl  who  had 
waited  more  than  a  year  for  him  to  do  so.  All  he 
required  now  was  help  of  the  kind  he  had  so  often 
given.  He  must  eliminate  his  feelings.  He  must 
force  himself  into  a  state  of  frigid  practicality.  He 
must  audit  his  affair  with  Rita  as  impartially  as  an 
accountant  would  audit  his  own  books.  A  man  of 
his  experience  ought  to  be  able  to  do  that. 

Riding  downtown  in  the  Subway,  he  attempted  it. 
He  had  a  choice  of  two  courses:  Either  he  must  ig 
nore  Rita  until  she  should  communicate  with  him,  or 
else  he  must  spare  no  effort  to  get  in  touch  with  her 
at  once.  The  arguments  in  favour  of  the  first  course 
were  simple.  She  had  broken  her  promise  to  call 
him  up,  ignored  his  messages,  failed  to  acknowledge 
his  flowers.  He  would  like  to  punish  her  for  all  that. 

But  there  were  arguments  in  favour  of  the  other 
course.  Suppose  he  remained  silent — what  then? 


RITA  COVENTRY  97 

Rita  was  proud.  She  might  answer  silence  with 
silence.  A  deadlock.  Everything  ended.  More 
over,  a  card  in  a  box  of  flowers  was  easily  lost.  And 
there  was  absolutely  no  way  of  being  sure  that  his 
message,  left  with  Pierre,  had  ever  reached  her. 

To  discover  a  plausible  excuse  for  her  failure  to 
telephone  according  to  her  pledge  did  not  at  first 
look  easy,  but  before  he  reached  his  office  he  had  hit 
upon  an  explanation  which  seemed  to  him  a  master 
piece  of  feminine  psychologizing.  Her  promise, 
given  freely  as  they  parted,  had  assumed  an  aspect 
altogether  different  when  the  time  came  for  its  ful 
fillment.  Twelve  hours  of  daylight  had  changed  the 
look  of  things.  She  had  felt  self-conscious.  Dif 
fidence!  That  was  it!  He  had  a  vision  of  her 
thinking  of  him,  wishing  to  telephone  to  him,  yet 
not  wishing  to;  going  hesitantly  toward  the  instru 
ment,  then  faltering  and  giving  up.  A  charming 
vision. 

He  understood  her  feeling.  He  would  put  away 
false  pride  and  keep  calling  her  up  until  he  got  her. 
Once  they  had  talked,  her  shyness  would  be  gone. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  left  his  desk,  where  an  in 
vestor  was  discussing  with  him  the  advisability  of 
selling  stocks  and  buying  bonds,  went  to  the  private 
telephone  booth  and  called  Rita's  number.  Pierre 
reported  that  she  was  not  yet  awake.  He  had  ex 
pected  that.  But  to-day  he  meant  to  be  forehanded. 

Returning  to  his  desk,  he  resumed  his  conversa 
tion  with  the  customer— who  thought  him  over-pessi- 


98  RITA  COVENTRY 

mistic — and  at  half-past  twelve  he  telephoned  again. 
This  time  the  butler  asked  him  to  hold  the  wire.  That 
was  encouraging,  but  the  kindling  hope  was  quickly 
extinguished,  for  Pierre  returned  to  say  that  the 
throat  specialist  was  with  mademoiselle; — if  Mr. 
Parrish  would  leave  his  number  mademoiselle  would 
call  him  in  a  little  while. 

The  throat  specialist!  Perhaps  she  was  ill.  Per 
haps  that  was  why  he  had  not  heard  from  her.  Here 
was  another  contingency  he  should  have  taken  into 
his  calculations.  Opera  singers  had  to  be  more  care 
ful  of  their  health  than  ordinary  mortals.  But  in 
response  to  his  quick  inquiry  Pierre  assured  him  that 
she  was  quite  well;  the  doctor's  visit  was  a  matter  of 
routine. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Parrish. 

Yet  somehow  he  was  not  quite  glad  to  hear  it. 
Of  course  he  did  not  wish  Rita  to  be  ill,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  had  she  been  ill  everything  would  have 
been  explained.  He  left  his  number,  and  then,  instead 
of  going  out,  had  lunch  sent  in  to  him  and  ate  it 
at  his  desk.  The  market  to-day  was  so  irregular— 
the  kind  of  market  one  did  not  like  to  leave. 

An  hour  passed — an  hour  of  suspense,  punctu 
ated  by  frequent  excursions  to  the  ticker,  but  the  un 
certainties  of  this  fluctuating  market  were  trifles  in 
comparison  with  those  of  his  state  of  mind.  At 
length  he  ceased  to  make  excuses  for  her.  Her  prom 
ises  were  worth  nothing.  She  had  never  intended  to 
call  him  up. 


RITA  COVENTRY  99 

Well,  he  would  give  her  one  more  chance.  As  he 
went  to  the  booth  for  the  third  time  he  felt  that  he 
was  facing  one  of  the  crises  of  his  life.  The  whole 
future  hung  on  what  should  happen  now.  Again  he 
heard  the  voice  of  Pierre.  He  asked  to  speak  to 
Rita. 

"Mademoiselle  had  to  go  out,  sir." 

"All  right!" 

The  electric  contact,  broken  as  he  lowered  the  re 
ceiver  on  the  hook,  would  never  be  resumed.  It 
was  over;  over  and  done  with.  He  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  staring  dully  at  the  mouthpiece. 

"Damn  her!"  he  muttered.  "I'm  through!" 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  WAS  tired— frightfully  tired.  He  needed 
rest.  He  needed  to  relax.  But  his  nerves 
would  not  let  him  relax.  The  sensible  thing 
for  him  to  do,  he  knew,  was  to  go  home  and  have  a 
nap  before  taking  Alice  to  the  train,  but  the  thought 
was  distasteful.  He  was  too  restless  for  that. 

After  the  closing  of  the  market  he  remained  for  a 
time  in  the  office,  talking  gloomily  with  customers 
about  the  economic  future  of  the  country,  the  rail 
road  situation,  wages,  the  excess-profits  tax,  killing 
initiative.  Had  not  the  British  tried  an  excess- 
profits  tax  and  abandoned  it?  But  the  British  gen 
erally  showed  some  sense  in  these  matters.  A  di 
rect  sales  tax  was  the  only  thing. 

He  looked  in  his  desk  drawers  for  a  certain  pam 
phlet  giving  the  comparative  figures,  but  could  not 
find  it.  The  drawers  were  full  of  old  papers  and  re 
ports,  most  of  them  useless.  Talk  about  efficiency! 
Sixty  dollars  a  week  to  a  secretary  who  didn't  even 
clear  out  these  desk  drawers!  He  buzzed  for  the 
young  man,  and  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  suffered 
long  and  patiently  spoke  to  him  about  the  matter. 
Then  he  left  for  the  day. 

Instead  of  taking  the  Subway  up  to  Forty-second 


RITA  COVENTRY  IOI 

Street,  according  to  his  usual  habit,  he  walked  up 
crowded  Nassau  Street  to  City  Hall  Park,  and  strik 
ing  across  the  park  continued  up  Broadway. 

How  the  city  had  changed  within  his  memory! 
Not  only  the  buildings  but  the  people.  You  never 
saw  any  Americans  these  days.  Half  the  time  you 
didn't  even  hear  the  English  language.  Swarthy 
foreigners,  stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalks  to 
converse,  blocked  the  way  like  stupid  cattle. 

At  Union  Square  he  swung  round  its  west 
ern  border.  Why  was  Union  Square  always  torn 
up?  It  never  ceased  to  look  like  a  mining  camp. 
There  was  something  sad,  too,  about  Broadway  be 
tween  Fourteenth  and  Twenty-third  streets.  All 
the  old  stores  gone — some  of  them  moved  uptown, 
some  closed  forever.  He  used  to  like  those  stores, 
even  in  the  days  when  he  hadn't  much  money  to 
spend.  And  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel — one  missed  it; 
it  had  character.  The  moment  anything  became  a 
landmark  in  this  town  it  was  time  to  get  rid  of  it— 
unless  it  happened  to  be  something  ugly,  like  the 
Worth  Monument.  That,  of  course,  would  always  be 
preserved.  It  hadn't  looked  so  bad  in  the  old  days 
when  there  were  trees  round  it,  but  now  the  trees  were 
gone. 

The  mild  weather  of  the  last  few  days  continued. 
If  you  wore  your  overcoat  it  was  too  warm,  but  if 
you  took  it  off  you  felt  a  chill  in  the  air.  There  was 
a  lot  of  pneumonia  about.  This  premature  spring 
was  enervating.  As  soon  as  everyone  was  accus- 


102  RITA  COVENTRY 

tomed  to  it  there  would  come  a  blizzard.  That  was 
the  New  York  climate. 

Reaching  the  Waldorf  he  thought  of  taking  a  taxi, 
but  after  a  moment's  hesitation  continued  up  Fifth 
Avenue  afoot.  He  had  not  intended  to  walk  so  far, 
but  as  long  as  he  had  done  it  he  might  as  well  com 
plete  the  job,  tired  though  he  was.  There  was  just 
about  time  enough  to  walk  home  and  freshen  up 
before  calling  for  Alice.  After  she  had  left  he  would 
go  home  and  bathe  and  rest  and  have  some  dinner. 
Or  perhaps  he  would  go  out  to  dinner.  He  could  go 
to  a  club.  He  would  run  into  people  there.  He 
didn't  feel  like  dining  alone.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
didn't  feel  like  dining  at  all. 

Curious  how  the  looks  of  the  crowds  changed  from 
day  to  day  without  apparent  reason.  There  ought 
to  be  as  many  pretty,  fashionably  dressed  women 
out  upon  the  Avenue  this  afternoon  as  yesterday  or 
the  day  before,  but  there  were  not.  To-day  half 
the  women  looked  dowdy  and  the  other  half  over 
dressed.  How  they  piled  the  make-up  on !  So  many 
of  them  had  taken  to  dyeing  their  hair,  too,  and 
every  now  and  then  one  got  a  whiff  of  noxious  scent 
that  was  asphyxiating. 

What  a  town!  More  and  more  crowded  every 
year.  Business  offices  piled  in  layers,  higher  and 
higher;  homes  piled  in  the  same  way— so-called 
homes.  Nobody  in  New  York  really  had  a  home. 
It  was  all  impermanence. 

His  car  was  waiting  at  the  curb  when  he  reached 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,03 

his  door,  and  soon  he  was  on  his  way  across  town  to 
Alice's.  It  would  be  some  time  now  before  he  took 
this  drive  again,  for  she  would  be  gone  ten  days  or 
two  weeks. 

Now  that  Rita  had  been  definitely  and  finally 
ejected  from  his  life  there  was  not,  of  course,  the 
pressing  need  that  there  had  been  for  Alice's  depart 
ure.  Still,  it  was  just  as  well  that  she  was  going. 
The  experience  with  Rita  had  shaken  him.  Such  a 
splendid  dream  with  such  a  swift  and  bitter  awaken 
ing.  It  would  take  him  a  little  while  to  pull  himself 
together  and  get  over  it,  and  it  was  better  that  Alice 
should  be  away  while  he  was  fighting  the  thing  out 
with  himself. 

He  found  her  putting  the  last  touches  to  her  pack 
ing.  The  wardrobe  trunk  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 
bedroom  ready  to  be  closed.  He  pushed  the  two 
sides  together  and  snapped  the  lock.  The  porters 
came  to  get  it. 

"  Let  me —  "  she  said,  fumbling  at  her  purse,  but 
he  tipped  them,  telling  them  to  put  the  trunk  on  a 
taxi  and  have  it  wait  with  his  own  car. 

Her  Russia-leather  suitcase  was  lying  open  on  the 
bed.  He  saw  her  go  to  her  dressing  table,  take  the 
large  silver-framed  photograph  of  himself,  wrap  it  in 
something  soft  and  silken  and  place  it  in  the  bag. 

"Surely  you  aren't  going  to  lug  that  out  there  with 
you?"  he  asked. 

"I  most  certainly  am!" 

"You  should  have  put  it  in  the  trunk,  then." 


104  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Something  might  happen  to  it — they  slam  trunks 
around  so.  Anyway,  I  want  it  with  me." 

"  But  when  you  get  out  to  your  sister's — you  won't 
want  to  put  my  picture  up  in  your  room,  will  you?" 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why  not!" 

"They'll  be  asking  about  it.  They'll  want  to 
know  if  it's  your  young  man." 

"Well,  it  is  my  young  man,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  so  very  young,"  he  said. 

She  came  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  looking 
up  into  his  face. 

"Yes,  young!"  said  she.  "You  don't  look  within 
five  years  of  your  age,  dear.  And  you're  handsome 
— so  handsome!" 

"God  forbid!" 

"Yes,  handsome — the  handsomest  man  I  ever 
saw,  if  you  want  to  know!  Maybe  that's  the  only 
reason  I  take  your  photograph  with  me.  Did  that 
ever  occur  to  you?  Maybe  I  don't  love  you  at  all ! 
Maybe  it's  just  that  I'm  proud  of  your  looks!" 

She  seemed  very  sweet  at  that  moment,  in  her  ten 
der  playfulness.  Somehow,  as  she  stood  there  close  to 
him  he  felt  happier  than  he  had  been  in  several  days. 
Not  really  happy,  of  course; — but  there  was  something 
soothing  about  Alice;  it  helped  him  to  relax. 

"They  won't  ask  about  your  picture,"  she  went 
on.  "They  may  wonder — I  suppose  they  do  wonder 
sometimes,  but  that's  all." 

"Wonder?" 

"  I  mean,  I  suppose  they  wonder  if  I'm  ever  going 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,05 

to — that  is,  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  my  life.  But 
they  aren't  the  prying  kind.  And  even  if  they  were, 
dear,  I  just  couldn't  get  along  without  your  picture. 
I  love  you  too  much!" 

"Too  much!"  he  said.  "That's  just  it.  You 
really  haven't  had  out  of  life  anything  like  what 
you're  entitled  to.  I  haven't  done — 

She  placed  her  hand  lightly  over  his  mouth  as 
though  to  stop  the  utterance  of  a  sacrilege.  They 
stood  thus  for  a  moment,  silent. 

"  It's  time  to  go,"  he  said. 

He  helped  her  close  the  bag  and  snap  the  cloth 
cover  over  it.  Then,  when  she  had  put  on  her  hat 
and  coat,  he  carried  the  bag  to  the  hall  and  waited 
there  while  she  ran  to  the  kitchen  to  say  good-bye  to 
Otillia. 

"I  told  her  to  telephone  to  you  if  anything  came 
up  while  I'm  away,"  she  said  when  she  returned. 
"That's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course.  Come  along."  He  held  the  door 
open. 

In  the  limousine  he  felt  her  hand  descend  softly 
over  his  upon  the  seat. 

"Are  you  feeling  better  to-day,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right." 

"  Be  careful  about  sudden  changes  in  the  weather." 

"Certainly." 

As  they  neared  the  station  she  said,  "  I  don't  know 
how  I'm  going  to  get  along  without  you." 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  long." 


io6  RITA  COVENTRY 

The  car  had  swung  into  Vanderbilt  Avenue  and  was 
approaching  the  carriage  entrance  of  the  terminal. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Dick?" 

"You  know  it." 

"Darling!"  she  said,  and  pressed  his  hand  grate 
fully.  "And  you  will  try  to  arrange  for  us  to  come 
back  together,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  can." 

Her  trunk  had  followed  them  down  in  a  taxi;  he 
checked  it,  then  went  with  her  to  the  train-gate,  where 
an  obliging  gateman  let  him  pass  through  with  her. 

"Dick,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone  as  they  walked 
down  the  concrete  platform  beside  the  long  row  of 
Pullmans,  "  I  can't  help  it.  I  feel — apprehensive." 

"Why  should  you?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  woke  up  last  night — you  know 
how  weak  you  are  when  you  wake  up  in  the  night 
and  begin  to  worry?  It  was  a  sort  of  nightmare. 
Things  haven't  seemed  just  right  lately.  I  felt  al 
most  as  if — as  if  we  had  quarrelled.  I  couldn't  get 
it  out  of  my  head  that  you  wanted  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"Silly  girl!" 

"  I  suppose  I  am  silly." 

"Yes.     Why,  I  had  a  nightmare  myself." 

"About  me?    What  did  you  dream  about  me?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  We  were  on  a  boat.  I  can't 
remember  dreams.  There  was  cheese  in  that  salad- 
dressing  last  night  and  cheese  never  agrees  with  me." 

He  boarded  the  sleeper,  saw  her  to  her  section,  and 
tipped  the  redcap  who  had  carried  her  bag. 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,07 

"Now,"  he  said  with  the  air  of  one  whose  duty  is 
done,  "you're  all  fixed.  Here  are  your  tickets." 

"Thanks,  dear,  for  seeing  to  everything.  Can't 
you  sit  down  a  minute?" 

"  I  have  to  get  home  and  freshen  up  before  dinner," 
he  answered.  "And — I  hate  to  wait  around  for  a 
train  to  leave." 

"Yes,  I  remember."  She  rose.  "I'll  go  to  the 
platform  with  you." 

He  followed  her  down  the  aisle  and  into  the  narrow 
passage.  At  the  end  of  the  passage  she  paused, 
looked  out  to  the  platform  to  see  that  no  one  was 
coming,  then  turned  quickly  and  placing  her  hands 
upon  his  shoulders,  gave  him  a  swift,  eager  kiss. 

"Not  here!"  he  protested,  disengaging  himself  and 
glancing  apprehensively  behind  him. 

She  was  amused. 

"Don't  you  like  me  when  I'm  brazen?" 

"Now  you  go  back,"  he  said,  smiling  uneasily, 
"and  we'll  say  good-bye  through  the  window." 

He  left  her,  walked  back  beside  the  car,  and  pres 
ently  saw  her  sit  down  on  the  green  plush  seat  within. 
Bending  over  and  looking  at  her  through  the  two 
thicknesses  of  glass,  he  formed  a  good-bye  with  his 
lips,  then  paused  for  an  instant,  feeling  her  clinging 
to  him  with  her  eyes. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  again,  and  lifted  his  hat. 

This  time  her  lips  moved  in  answer.  With  a  nod 
and  a  smile  he  straightened  up  and  walked  away. 

Coming   upon   a   newsman   some   distance   back 


io8  RITA  COVENTRY 

along  the  platform  he  was  reminded  that  he  had 
failed  to  supply  her  with  anything  to  read.  He  hesi 
tated,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  go  back  to  her  because  it 
would  mean  saying  good-bye  all  over  again.  Mak 
ing  a  quick  selection  from  the  man's  supply  he  pen 
cilled  Alice's  name  and  her  car  and  section  numbers 
on  the  cover  *of  one  of  the  periodicals.  Then  he 
stopped  an  empty-handed  redcap  who  was  passing 
and  gave  them  to  him  for  delivery.  It  would  be  a 
little  surprise  for  her.  Trifling  attentions  always 
pleased  her  so. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  street  lamps  were  lighted  on  Fifth  Avenue 
as  he  drove  home  from  the  station,  and  the 
traffic  was  much  diminished.     It  was  nearly 
dinnertime.     How  should  he  pass  the  evening?    The 
sensible  thing  to  do  would  be  to  dine  at  his  apart 
ment,  read  for  a  while,  and  go  early  to  bed.     But 
tired  as  he  was,  he  dreaded  the  thought  of  a  quiet 
evening  at  home— thinking  of  Rita! 

All  day  long  he  had  known  that  the  time  would 
come  when  he  would  feel  as  he  was  feeling  now;  that 
he  would  find  himself  alone  with  nothing  to  do,  and 
that,  left  thus  to  himself,  he  would  be  miserable;  but 
he  had  lacked  the  initiative  to  plan  the  evening 
otherwise.  He  had  thought  of  various  friends  and 
various  pastimes,  but  had  rejected  them  one  after 
another.  There  was  no  definite  person  he  really 
wished  to  see;  there  was  no  definite  thing  he  really 
wished  to  do;  yet  his  desire  to  see  someone  and  to  do 
something  was  overwhelming.  He  did  not  want  to 
plan.  He  wanted  something  to  happen — something 
unexpected,  extraordinary,  stimulating;  the  kind  of 
thing  that  never  happens  when  one  longs  for  it. 

He  wished  he  were  anywhere  but  where  he  was. 
Oh.  to  be  in  Paris  at  this  moment,  with  a  seat  at  a 

109 


no  RITA  COVENTRY 

little  table  on  the  sidewalk  terrace  of  some  boulevard 
cafe;  or  in  a  speedy  motor  boat,  dashing  along  the 
shores  of  some  tropical  isle,  blue  and  silver  in  the 
moonlight;  or  in  an  aeroplane  soaring  like  a  night 
bird  between  the  stars  and  the  sleeping  world !  But 
in  all  of  his  imaginings  he  was  conscious  of  some 
one  at  his  side,  and  though  he  tried  to  make  him 
self  oblivious  of  the  identity  of  that  someone,  he  could 
not. 

How  Rita  haunted  him! 

At  home  he  dawdled  miserably  over  his  dressing 
and  it  was  after  eight  when  he  started  on  foot  for 
the  club;  and  when,  a  little  later,  he  entered  the 
dining  room  he  saw  after-dinner  coffee  on  many  of 
the  tables.  Four  of  his  friends,  Larry  Merrick  among 
them,  were  at  a  table  where  there  was  no  room  for 
an  extra  place.  Two  more  were  talking  business  and 
evidently  wished  to  be  alone.  Clarke  was  dining  by 
himself,  as  usual,  and  for  the  usual  reason:  nobody 
wished  to  dine  with  such  an  ass  as  Clarke. 

Parrish  sat  down  alone  and  looked  over  the  menu. 
The  head  waiter  came  and  recommended  chicken  pot- 
pie  but  Parrish  hated  chicken  potpie.  His  order  given 
at  last,  he  read  his  second  evening  paper.  How  slow 
the  service  was! 

But  when  he  was  eating  his  dessert  Larry  Merrick 
came  over  and  joined  him.  "A  nice  party  we  had 
the  other  night,"  he  said. 

Parrish  assented  briefly;  then  spoke  of  a  con 
solidation  of  steel  companies  which  had  been  an- 


RITA  COVENTRY 


1 1 1 


nounced  that  day,  asking  Merrick  what  he  thought 
about  it. 

"It  ought  to  be  a  good  thing,"  said  the  other. 
"Wasn't  it  nice  to  hear  her  sing  in  those  intimate 
surroundings?  It  was  just  right,  the  way  she  modu 
lated  her  voice  for  that  room." 

"Yes.  It  struck  me  as  peculiar  that  the  steels 
didn't  go  up  on  the  news  though." 

"You  can't  tell  in  this  market.  Have  you  seen 
her  since?" 

Great  Lord!  Didn't  the  man  know  anything  else 
to  talk  about ! 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"She  seemed  quite  taken  with  you." 

"Rot!" 

"  Busini  evidently  didn't  think  it  was  rot."  Mer 
rick  smiled. 

Parrish  laid  down  his  fork. 

"Waiter,"  he  said,  "bring  my  coffee." 

"You  think  she  was  simply  using  you  to  plague 
him?" 

That  possibility  had  not  occurred  to  Parrish  be 
fore.  "How  should  I  know?"  he  demanded.  "All 
I  know  is  that  Busini  is  a  lunatic." 

"Yes.     What  do  you  suppose  she  sees  in  him?" 

"The  Lord  only  knows." 

"Yet  they've  been  keen  about  each  other  for  a 
long  time." 

"So  I've  heard,"  Parrish  answered  in  a  tone  in 
tended  to  dismiss  the  topic. 


H2  RITA  COVENTRY 

"I  guess  it's  pretty  straight."  Merrick  paused, 
then  added  ruminatively,  "Women  are  certainly 
queer!" 

"  I  don't  agree  with  that  statement,"  the  other  re 
turned  crisply.  "You  can't  make  sweeping  gener 
alizations  about  either  sex  any  more  than  you  can 
about  nations  or  political  parties  or  the  members  of 
this  club.  Some  men  are  queer,  and  some  women 
aren't  queer  at  all.  Where  can  you  find  a  greater 
freak  than  Busini,  for  instance?  On  the  other  hand, 
take  a  high  type  of  woman— the  fine,  straightfor 
ward,  honest,  loyal  kind  that  you  can  tie  to  as  if  she 
were  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar.  Certainly  you  wouldn't 
call  a  woman  like  that  queer!" 

He  was  thinking  of  Alice.  Her  train  must  be 
somewhere  near  Albany  by  now.  She  had  eaten  her 
dinner  and  was  back  in  her  section  reading  one  of 
the  magazines  that  he  had  sent  her;  or  perhaps  she 
was  sitting  thinking  about  him.  He  wished  that 
she  had  not  gone  away;  that  she  were  back  in  her 
apartment,  where  he  could  go  to  her  for  solace.  She 
would  ask  no  questions.  She  would  demand  noth 
ing. 

"  I  was  talking  about  temperamental  women,"  ex 
plained  Merrick;  "the  artistic  kind." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  then?" 

"Weren't  we  discussing  Rita?"  Merrick  looked 
surprised. 

"  We  were  discussing  women.  When  you  get  down 
to  artistic  people  there's  no  use  discussing  them  at 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,,3 

all.  Nobody  can  figure  them  out.  You  can't  tell 
what  they're  going  to  do  any  more  than  you  can  tell 
what  a  bolt  of  lightning  is  going  to  do.  And  even 
if  you  could  figure  them  out— what's  the  use?  It's  a 
waste  of  time.  They're  like  a  lot  of  animals  in  a 
zoo.  You  may  like  to  go  and  look  at  them  once  in 
a  while,  but  you  wouldn't  want  to  live  with  them, 
because  that  would  drive  you  of?  your  base." 

The  waiter  brought  his  coffee.  Parrish  tasted  it 
and  found  it  too  hot.  From  his  glass  he  poured 
some  ice  water  into  the  cup,  then  gulped  down  its 
contents  and  rose  from  the  table. 

"Talk  about  generalizations!"  said  Merrick  as 
they  moved  together  toward  the  door.  "It  seems 
to  me  you've  dealt  with  artistic  people  pretty  much 
en  bloc.  Architects  are  artistic — aren't  they  pretty 
sane?" 

"They'll  put  small  windows  in  a  house  to  make  it 
pretty,  whether  you  get  air  or  not." 

"Maybe  they  will.  But  there's  a  big  difference 
between  different  kinds  of  artistic  people.  Of  course, 
poets  are  the  worst.  I  don't  like  writers,  anyhow! 
Half  of  them  seem  to  be  socialists  or  anarchists; 
they  get  too  much  advertising  and  it  swells  them 
up.  And  painters — they're  a  little  off,  too.  They 
think  they  have  to  wear  beards  and  soft  hats  and 
baggy  homespun  suits.  But  music  is  more  universal 
than  the  other  arts.  It  reaches  everyone  and  ex 
presses  things  for  them  they  can't  express  for  them 
selves,  and  for  that  reason  it  seems  to  me  that  musi- 


ii4  RITA  COVENTRY 

cal  people  are  generally  more  human  than  artists  of 
other  kinds." 

They  were  at  the  head  of  the  wide  stair  leading 
down  from  the  dining-room  floor  to  the  hall  below. 

"Musical  people!"  repeated  Parrish,  stopping  in 
his  tracks.  "Musical  people  human?  Why,  musi 
cal  people  are  the  worst  of  the  whole  outfit!" 

As  quickly  as  he  could  he  escaped  from  Merrick 
and  from  the  club,  and  walking  aimlessly  to  Broad 
way,  strolled  down  through  the  glittering,  crowded 
district  of  theatres,  restaurants,  little  shops  and 
movie  palaces.  There  came  into  his  mind  a  vague 
thought  of  seeing  a  movie,  but  the  signs  in  electric 
lights  outside  the  movie  houses  repelled  him:  "The 
Penalty  of  Passion"-  "The  Chains  of  Love" — 
"The  Golden  Sin!"  No,  no!  Besides,  it  was  Sat 
urday  night.  Everything  would  be  packed  to  the 
doors. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Forty-second  Street  he 
felt  that  he  had  enough  of  Broadway  jostling;  so 
turning  off,  he  cut  through  to  Fifth  Avenue  and 
thence  made  his  way  homeward. 

That  night  he  slept  soundly,  but  he  awoke  in  the 
morning  with  a  feeling  of  deep  depression.  It  was 
Sunday;  he  had  nothing  to  do;  the  long,  dismal 
day  confronted  him.  How  long  must  he  go  on  in 
this  miserable  frame  of  mind,  with  his  heart  like  a 
lump  of  lead  inside  him? 

Drinking  his  coffee  at  breakfast,  with  the  Sunday 
papers  spread  about  him,  he  told  himself  that  he 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,,5 

ought  to  do  something  to  shake  off  his  despondency. 
The  thing  for  him  to  do,  whether  he  felt  like  it  or 
not,  was  to  pack  up  and  get  out  of  town  for  a  day 
or  two.  But  where?  He  knew  he  would  be  wel 
come  at  the  houses  of  a  number  of  his  friends  in 
Westchester  County  and  on  Long  Island,  but  he  did 
not  want  to  see  people  to  whom  he  would  have  to 
talk.  He  did  not  even  want  to  go  to  Roslyn  and  see 
the  Bements,  though  Stuart  Bement  was  his  partner 
and  his  closest  friend.  In  almost  any  other  circum 
stances  the  Bements  would  have  been  the  very  people 
he  would  have  wished  to  visit;  but  the  thought  of 
their  placid,  happy,  wholesome  home  was  repellent 
to  his  present  mood.  He  had  the  feeling  that  he 
wished  to  see  people  without  associating  with  them. 

Why  not  Atlantic  City?  He  did  not  like  Atlantic 
City,  but  that,  in  this  unnatural,  bitter  humour  he 
was  in,  seemed  almost  to  recommend  the  place.  If 
he  went  anywhere  it  must  be  to  some  place  he  did 
not  like;  not  a  place  he  hated,  exactly,  but  one  of 
which  he  was  contemptuous. 

He  directed  I  to  to  pack  for  him,  then  called  up  the 
garage.  His  chauffeur  had  not  yet  arrived,  but  was 
expected  momentarily,  and  he  left  word  for  him  to 
ring  up  as  soon  as  he  should  come  in.  Then  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  secretary  saying  that  he  would 
not  be  at  the  office  until  Tuesday  or  Wednesday, 
and  telling  where  he  could  be  reached. 

He  had  not  yet  heard  from  his  chauffeur  when 
his  bags  were  packed  and  he  was  ready  to  leave  for 


n6  RITA  COVENTRY 

the  train,  and  he  was  about  to  telephone  down  to 
the  door  man  to  get  him  a  taxi  when  the  telephone 
rang.  But  it  was  not  his  chauffeur's  voice  he  heard 
when  he  answered.  It  was  a  woman's  voice  asking 
for  him,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  it  his  heart  suddenly 
became  a  thing  nervously  alive. 

"This  is  Mr.  Parrish,"  he  replied,  almost  but  not 
quite  certain  of  the  voice. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

His  hands  holding  the  instrument  began  to 
tremble. 

"Where  have  I  been?"  he  repeated,  stupefied  even 
more  by  the  bland  audacity  of  the  question  than  by 
the  astounding  fact  that  this  was  actually  Rita — 
Rita,  to  whom  he  had  never,  never  expected  to  speak 
again. 

"Yes,  where  have  you  been?  Why  haven't  1 
heard  from  you?" 

"Oh,  then  you  haven't  heard  from  me?"  he  said 
with  biting  irony. 

"No.     Have  you  been  ill?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  answered  slowly,  ominously. 

"You  don't  think  so?  Then  what's  been  the 
matter?" 

His  anger,  rising  suddenly,  seemed  to  choke  him. 

"  You!"  he  cried.  "  You've  been  the  matter,  since 
you're  so  kind  as  to  ask!" 

"I?"  She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "How  could  I 
be  the  matter?  Why,  I  haven't  even  talked  to  you 
since  the  night  you  were  here!" 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,,7 

"No,"  he  returned  bitterly,  "you  haven't,  al 
though  you  promised  twice  to  call  me  up.  But  I 
suppose  you've  forgotten  about  that.  I  suppose 
little  things  like  promises  don't  matter  much  with 
you!  I  suppose— 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  broke  in,  "that  you  might 
have  waited  to  hear  what  I  was  going  to  say?" 

"1  might  have,"  he  retorted,  "but  I  happened  to 
have  something  to  say  myself!  I'm  not  accustomed 
to  being  kept  waiting  around  for  hours  to  hear  from 
people.  I  suppose  you  aren't  aware  that  I've  called 
you  up  half  a  dozen  times.  Or  perhaps  it's  your 
idea  that  I've  telephoned  for  the  pleasure  of  talking 
to  your  butler!" 

"  I  called  up,"  she  answered  stiffly,  "to  thank  you 
for  the  flowers  you  sent,  and  to  explain.  Evidently, 
though,  you  don't  care  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

There  was  something  very  final  in  her  voice. 
Though  he  did  not  wish  to  make  things  easy  for  her, 
he  did  not  wish  to  lose  her  altogether;  and  he  felt 
that  unless  he  quickly  changed  his  attitude  she  would 
hang  up  the  receiver. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "that 
I  spoke  hastily.  If  I  did  I'm  sorry.  But— well, 
just  stop  and  think  what  you've  put  me  through! 
I  didn't  believe  I  was  ever  going  to  hear  from  you 
again.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I— 

"Well,  you  didn't  sound  particularly  ecstatic  when 
you  did  hear  from  me,"  she  interrupted.  "You 
spoke  as  if  you  actually  hated  me." 


n8  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Well,  I  did."  He  gave  a  reminiscent  little 
laugh. 

"  I'm  ever  so  sorry,"  she  said,  now  speaking  gently. 
"  But  you  wouldn't  have  felt  that  way  if  you'd  only 
understood.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  horrible 
week  I've  had!  It's  been  ghastly — simply  ghastly. 
You  don't  know  how  much  I've  thought  about  you. 
I've  tried  several  times  to  get  you  on  the  telephone, 
too;  but  your  wire  would  be  busy,  or  there'd  be  a 
ring  on  mine  just  as  I  was  going  to  call  you,  or 
people  would  come  in  and  bother  me.  You  can't 
dream  how  people  bother  me!  They're  at  me  all  the 
time." 

"Of  course  I  know  you're  busy,"  he  admitted. 

"Busy?  Oh,  my  dear!  If  you  hate  anybody  it 
ought  to  be  those  people  down  at  the  opera — for 
calling  extra  rehearsals.  It's  all  on  account  of  that 
frightful  woman  Bonata.  She's  a  slow  study,  poor 
thing.  Yesterday  she  wasted  the  whole  afternoon 
for  us.  She  knows  the  music  and  the  business,  but 
she  can't  coordinate  the  two.  It's  maddening  to 
work  with  her.  And  the  day  before,  my  chauffeur 
had  to  go  to  court  and  I  was  without  my  car 
and—" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  You  could  have  had 
mine." 

"You're  too  kind.  Well,  anyway,  you  do  forgive 
me,  don't  you,  now  that  you  understand?" 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  so  generous 
that  it  took  on  a  note  of  tenderness.  "I'm  only 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,,9 

ashamed  of  having  jumped  to  conclusions  as  I  did. 
You'll  forgive  me  for  that— Rita?" 

"Naturally." 

"Say  it  then.     Say,  'I  forgive  you,  Dick.'" 

She  repeated  the  words  after  him.  It  was  sweet 
to  hear  his  name  upon  her  lips. 

"Angel!" 

"What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"Talking  to  the  loveliest  creature  in  the  world!" 

"What  were  you  doing  before?  What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"If  you'd  called  up  ten  minutes  later,"  said  he, 
"you  wouldn't  have  found  me.  I  was  just  going 
away." 

"Where?" 

"To  Atlantic  City.  That's  what  you  were  driving 
me  to." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "that's  just  where  I'd  like  to  go! 
I'm  wild  to  get  out  of  town.  I'll  go,  too." 

It  did  not  cross  his  mind  that  she  might  be  in 
earnest  until  she  added,  "That  is,  if  you  want  me." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"Certainly,"  she  replied  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"Let's  motor  down.  I'll  be  ready  in  an  hour." 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOT  until  her  travelling  bags  were  in  the  lim 
ousine  with  his,  and  she  in  the  seat  beside  him 
driving  toward  the  ferry,  did  Parrish  relax 
to  the  satisfying  certainty  that  this  time  he  was  not 
to  be  disappointed.     Rita  really  was  going  with  him 
to  Atlantic  City.     It  was  his  first  opportunity  to 
talk  with  her  under  conditions  at  once  secluded  and 
tranquil,  and  he  felt  profoundly  the  momentousness 
of  the  occasion.     He  and  Rita  were  on  the  threshold 
of  great  and  beautiful  beginnings. 

Through  the  Sunday  desolation  of  lower  Manhat 
tan  they  passed  swiftly,  and  having  crossed  the  bay 
and  Staten  Island,  threaded  their  way  through  the 
nearer  Jersey  towns.  Beyond  Red  Bank  they  swung 
into  the  Rumson  Road,  and  presently,  at  Seabright, 
reached  the  coast.  Over  a  vigorous  sea,  white 
crested  and  sparkling  in  the  sun,  came  a  crisp  in 
shore  wind  which  whistled  shrilly  at  the  windows  of 
the  car.  Save  for  a  solitary  tramp  steamer,  looking 
small  and  lonely  as  it  wallowed  toward  the  Narrows 
under  a  thinning  plume  of  black  smoke,  there  was  no 
sign  of  life  upon  the  waters.  Surf  was  breaking 
savagely  upon  deserted  sands.  Bathhouses  and 
summer  cottages,  their  doors  and  windows  boarded 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,2I 

up,  showed  faces  as  expressionless  as  those  of  blind 
men.  A  small  automobile  approached  from  the  op 
posite  direction  and  scurried  past,  as  it  seemed  to 
Parrish,  apologetically.  Then  the  road  ahead  was 
empty — an  enchanted  solitude. 

He  offered  her  his  cigarette  case. 

"No,  thanks,  I  don't  smoke." 

"  But  the  other  night— 

"That  was  only  to  annoy  Luigi." 

It  did  not  displease  him  to  know  that  she  had 
wished  to  annoy  the  Italian. 

Turning  a  little  in  his  seat  he  settled  his  back  into 
the  angle  of  the  cushions  so  that  he  could  look  at  her 
without  turning  his  head,  and  as  he  looked  he  felt 
anew  the  impact  of  her  loveliness.  He  always  felt 
it  thus  when,  having  glanced  away,  he  let  his  eyes 
return  to  her.  He  wished  to  touch  her  hand,  but 
was  deterred  by  a  curious  feeling  of  strangeness  with 
her. 

"Are  you  happy,  Rita?" 

She  answered  with  a  nod  and  a  little  smile. 

"Absolutely?"  He  had  a  boyish  longing  to  hear 
her  explicit  declaration. 

"Of  course.  We  couldn't  have  had  a  finer  day, 
could  we?" 

He  was  obliged  to  concede  the  fineness  of  the  day, 
but  he  wished  her  to  understand  that  it  was  not  the 
weather  that  was  making  him  happy,  so  he  con 
tinued:  "That's  far  from  being  the  best  of  it  though. 
The  best  of  it  is  that  you  and  I  are  really  going  to 


122  RITA  COVENTRY 

know  each  other  now.  This  is  going  to  be  a  day  to 
date  time  from.  Ever  since  that  night  at  your  house 
I've  had  a  tantalizing  sense  of  knowing  you,  yet 
paradoxically  not  knowing  you  at  all.  It's  as  if  I 
had  an  unfinished  portrait  of  you — very  beautiful, 
what  there  is  of  it,  but  with  the  rough  canvas  show 
ing  through  in  many  places.  Oh,  Rita,  how  eager 
I've  been  to  get  it  completed,  background  and  all!" 

"  I  shall  be  sitting  for  you  all  this  afternoon,"  she 
answered,  giving  him  a  little  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  cried  eagerly,  "and  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day,  and  on  and  on,  until " 

"Evidently,"  she  put  in,  "you  aren't  a  very  rapid 
painter." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  never  finish  really,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  sorry  you  started." 

"Never!     I'm  only  afraid  that  my  sitter  may  tire." 

"She's  not  tired  yet.     Is  the  pose  all  right?" 

In  imitation  of  a  portrait  painter's  studio  manner 
he  studied  her,  cocking  his  head  to  one  side. 

"Let's  see — the  face  a  little  more  this  way,  if  you 
please — so.  And  the  eyes" — indicating  his  own 
eyes — "here." 

At  the  meeting  of  their  eyes  he  felt  an  incandes 
cence.  They  laughed  together  vaguely  and  a  little 
shyly.  It  made  him  strangely  happy  to  laugh  with 
her  like  that.  Again  he  felt  the  desire  to  touch  her 
hand,  and  this  time  he  did  so.  She  gave  his  fingers  a 
swift  pressure,  then  gently  drew  her  hand  away. 


RITA  COVENTRY  I23 

"You  make  me  feel  fantastically  young,"  he  told 
her. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  feel  young?" 

"Because,  my  dear,  I'm  not." 

"Don't  be  absurd." 

"Guess,  then." 

After  a  brief  glance  of  appraisal  she  said,  "You're 
about  thirty-five." 

"Thirty-eight,"  he  corrected  in  a  sighing  tone. 

"Well,  that's  not  old.  You  may  be  sure  I  shan't 
let  myself  feel  old  at  thirty-eight." 

"Ah,"  he  said  mournfully,  "when  you're  that  age 
—I  shall  be  old  then!" 

"No,  you  won't." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Do  you  know  my  age?" 

"Not  exactly,  but  I  have  a  pretty  good  idea." 

"What?" 

"Judging  by  your  looks  alone,"  he  answered,  "I'd 
call  you  twenty-five.  But  I  have  more  than  your 
looks  to  go  by.  I  heard  you  sing  in  Paris  the  year  of 
your  debut.  Say  you  were  twenty  or  twenty-one 
then.  Add  eight  years  and  you  have  it." 

"Twenty-eight's  my  publicity  age,"  she  said  gravely, 
"but  I'm  really  thirty-one.  I  don't  mind  letting 
you  know." 

Her  slight  stressing  of  the  penultimate  word  gave 
him  extraordinary  satisfaction.  Gazing  at  her 
fondly  he  laughed. 

"You're  amused  that  I  shade  my  age?" 


i24  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Of  course." 

"Why?" 

"  It's  so  unnecessary — and  so  feminine." 

"Of  course  it's  feminine;  because  age  is  infinitely 
more  important  to  a  woman  than  to  a  man.  No  one 
cares  what  a  man's  age  is,  but  everyone  is  curious 
about  a  woman's.  About  a  man  they  say  'Oh,  he's 
somewhere  between  thirty  and  forty';  but  of  a  wo 
man  they  say  'She's  thirty-five  if  she's  a  day!' 
Even  when  she's  young  and  blooming  they'll  tell 
you  what  she's  going  to  look  like  at  forty.  'She's 
the  type  that  gets  fat!'  People  are  always  specu 
lating  about  the  ages  of  women  on  the  stage.  When 
a  woman  has  been  before  the  public  ten  or  fifteen 
years  they  begin  to  feel  they've  seen  her  since  the 
world  began.  It's  bad  enough  when  they  check  up, 
but  it's  worse  when  they  don't.  If  it's  ten  years 
they  call  it  fifteen,  and  if  it's  fifteen  they  say  'Why, 
I  heard  her  all  of  twenty  years  ago/  and  they  speak 
of  her  as  well  preserved.  Ugh!"  She  gave  a  little 
shudder.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  old." 

At  that  he  seized  her  hand  in  both  of  his  and  prom 
ised  that  she  never  should  be  old. 

"We'll  stay  young,"  he  said,  "together." 

The  afternoon's  run  left  in  his  mind  a  patchwork  of 
pictures  and  of  memories:  Long  Branch,  Lakewood, 
Toms  River,  Barnegat,  Absecon;  the  sea,  the  pines, 
the  marshes  and  the  sea  again;  Rita's  profile  against 
the  window;  her  gestures;  the  quick  turning  of  her 
head;  the  sudden  lighting  of  her  face;  the  whiteness 


RITA  COVENTRY  I25 

of  her  teeth  when  she  smiled;  the  grave  look  in  her 
eyes  as  she  talked  about  her  girlhood. 

Of  all  their  conversation  that  was  what  he  re 
membered  best.  He  felt  almost  as  if  he  had  seen 
the  narrow  gabled  cottage  in  Rochester,  standing  in 
its  cramped  yard,  between  two  other  cottages  al 
most  exactly  like  it.  There  was  a  front  porch,  with 
turned  posts  and  a  honeysuckle  vine,  where  the 
young  people  used  to  sit,  chattering  or  singing,  on 
hot  summer  evenings. 

But  her  father  had  not,  as  legend  told,  been  a 
postman.  He  had  been  an  accountant.  This  in 
formation,  though  in  itself  unimportant,  Parrish 
found  gratifying,  because  it  pointed  to  the  unre 
liability  of  all  rumours  concerning  Rita.  People 
like  to  tell  exaggerated  tales  of  a  woman  beautiful 
and  famous.  Such  stories  suited  the  common  crav 
ing  for  dramatic  contrast,  making  a  Cinderella  of 
her.  As  gossip  painted  Rita's  beginnings  grayer 
than  they  had  actually  been,  so  it  gilded  her  later 
life  with  passionate  adventures  set  on  the  private 
cars  and  yachts  of  multimillionaires  and  kings. 

The  picture  she  made  for  him  of  her  girlhood  took 
its  place  in  a  larger  picture  representing  the  life  of  a 
happy  though  none  too  prosperous  American  family, 
in  which  the  dressing  and  educating  of  three  children 
was  a  chief  concern.  It  was  always  a  strain  to  make 
both  ends  meet,  and  neither  Rita  nor  her  sister  had 
been  able  to  dress  so  well  as  their  girl  friends. 
"When  I  went  out  in  my  best,"  she  said,  "it  was 


126  RITA  COVENTRY 

always  with  a  haunting  feeling  that  there  might  be 
a  gap  somewhere  or  that  my  skirt  hung  badly." 

She  was  sixteen  when  the  choirmaster  in  the  church 
she  attended  thought  he  detected  an  unusual  voice. 
He  carried  her  along  as  far  as  he  was  able,  then  sent 
her  to  a  local  singing  teacher,  who,  after  a  few  years, 
advised  that  she  go  to  Proileau,  in  Paris,  to  be  "fin 
ished."  For  her  father  to  finance  such  a  venture  was 
quite  out  of  the  question,  but  some  wealthy  parish 
ioners,  becoming  interested  in  her,  made  up  a  purse 
and  sent  her  to  Paris  for  a  year.  A  year  was  not 
enough  to  bring  out  her  voice  fully,  but  Proileau 
believed  in  her  and  placed  her  as  prima  donna  with  a 
third-rate  opera  company  which  played  through  the 
summer  at  Trouville,  where  at  his  summer  home  he 
continued  to  coach  her.  Thus  she  gained  her  first 
practical  experience  and  the  money  for  a  second  year 
in  Paris.  In  her  third  year  she  made  her  debut  at 
the  Opera  Comique,  began  to  reimburse  her  bene 
factors,  and  bought  herself  "dresses  in  which  I 
wasn't  nervous  every  time  I  got  up  out  of  a  chair." 

He  felt  that  he  had  made  progress  with  the  back 
ground  of  his  portrait  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DUSK  was  advancing  over  the  marshes  as  Par- 
rish's  car  traversed  the  last  miles  of  the  broad 
boulevard   by  which  Atlantic  City  is  ap 
proached,  and  by  the  time  they  turned  into  Atlantic 
Avenue,  daylight  had  all  but  abandoned  its  futile 
rear-guard  action  against  oncoming  night. 

Looking  down  the  wide,  brightly  lighted  yet  some 
what  tawdry  shopping  street  and  into  the  intersect 
ing  highways  with  their  close-set  rows  of  cottages, 
boarding  houses,  and  cheap  hotels,  Parrish's  first 
impression  was  that  this  strange  settlement  had 
changed  hardly  at  all  in  the  ten  or  dozen  years  that 
had  passed  since  his  last  visit.  It  resembled,  he 
thought,  rather  a  town  into  which  prosperity  had 
gushed  with  a  flood  of  oil  than  one  established  on  the 
fixed  flow  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  the  tides,  and  tripper- 
laden  trains. 

Not  until  they  swung  round  a  corner  and  headed 
down  a  short  street  leading  toward  the  ocean  did  he 
perceive  that  there  had  been,  after  all,  a  kind  of 
progress  here;  for  it  was  then  that  he  discovered,  in 
its  new  surroundings,  the  pleasant  old  clapboarded 
hotel,  four  or  five  stories  high,  in  which  he  used  to 

stay. 

127 


128  RITA  COVENTRY 

A  decade  ago  this  hotel  had  been  reputed  the  best 
in  Atlantic  City;  it  still  appeared  to  be  kept  up,  and 
might,  for  aught  he  knew,  retain  its  old-time  excel 
lence;  but  its  former  look  of  size  and  consequence 
was  gone.  By  contrast  with  the  new  flamboyant 
caravansaries  towering  on  each  side  of  it,  facing  the 
Boardwalk  and  the  beach,  it  seemed  to  have  paled 
and  shrunk  until  now  it  made  him  think  of  a  little 
old  lady  standing  timid  and  suppressed  between  two 
stalwart  modern  girls  tricked  out  in  all  the  amazing 
vulgar  fashionableness  of  the  time. 

"I  used  to  stop  there,"  he  said,  looking  back  a 
little  wistfully  as  the  car  drew  up  under  the  porte- 
cochere  of  one  of  the  larger  hostelries  across  the 
way. 

"Yes,"  said  Rita,  "it's  a  nice  old  place.  But  this 
one  will  amuse  you." 

The  entrance  of  bronze  and  glass  before  which 
they  had  stopped  was  built  in  the  form  of  a  giant 
spider  web;  and  now,  like  a  pair  of  ravenous  black 
spiders,  there  darted  out  two  negro  bell  boys,  who 
seized  upon  their  luggage.  This  doorway  was  bi 
zarre  enough,  but  it  was  not  until  next  day,  when  he 
viewed  the  building  from  the  Boardwalk,  that  Par- 
rish  fully  realized  its  outward  splendours.  Archi 
tecturally  it  resembled  a  mammoth  pipe  organ  of 
tile  and  stucco,  built  after  modern  Germanic  designs, 
and  crowned,  as  an  afterthought,  with  a  job  lot  of 
Turkish  mosques. 

Entering  the  lobby  at   Rita's  side,  he  was  con- 


RITA  COVENTRY  I2g 

scious  of  vast  gilded  areas  above,  carried  on  ranks 
of  massive  columns  of  a  material  bearing  a  resem 
blance  to  marble,  reaching  away  into  distances  as 
splendid  as  those  of  a  motion-picture  Babylon. 
Around  the  bases  of  these  columns,  and  between 
them,  were  scattered  rugs,  couches,  chairs,  palms, 
and  people,  all  of  opulent  appearance. 

One  of  Parrish's  bags  contained  certain  precious 
and  illegal  bottles.  He  paused  midway  across  the 
lobby  to  warn  the  bell  boy  to  handle  it  with  care, 
and,  waiting,  overheard  a  snatch  of  conversation 
between  two  large,  expensive-looking  women  whose 
modishly  short  skirts  revealed  the  plebeian  bowing 
of  their  legs. 

"Irma's  got  three  hats  with  different-coloured 
paradise  plumes  on,"  said  one.  "That  red  one  you 
was  admiring  cost  two  hundred  and  sixty.  She 
showed  me  the  receipted  bill." 

To  which  the  other  replied  in  an  envious  tone, 
"Manny  don't  seem  to  kick,  no  matter  how  much 
she  spends." 

The  dapper  clerk  knew  at  once  who  Rita  was. 
"We  received  your  wire,"  he  declared  with  extreme 
affability  as  he  dipped  the  pen  and  handed  it  to  her. 
"I've  been  able  to  hold  a  very  choice  suite  for  you. 
Our  managing  director,  Mr.  Stussmann" — this  rev 
erently — "has  had  his  own  personal  grand  piano 
placed  in  your  parlour  with  his  compliments." 

Rita  thanked  him  and  wrote,  whereupon  the  young 
man  turned  to  Parrish,  assigning  him  a  suite  which, 


1 30  RITA  COVENTRY 

though  it  did  not  face  the  sea  directly,  he  mentioned 
urbanely  as  having  a  favourable  position  with  regard 
to  the  morning  sun. 

Before  going  to  his  own  rooms  Parrish  saw  Rita 
to  hers.  Her  parlour  was  large  and  elaborately  fur 
nished.  French  windows  opened  upon  a  sheltered 
balcony  overlooking  the  ocean.  On  the  centre  table 
was  a  bowl  of  roses  accompanied  by  the  card  of  Mr. 
Stussmann,  with  the  word  "Compliments"  written 
in  a  Spencerian  hand  above  the  name.  Before 
slipping  out  of  her  loose  motor  coat  Rita  moved  over 
to  Mr.  Stussmann's  "own  personal  grand  piano," 
opened  the  lid,  and  ran  a  hand  over  the  keyboard. 
It  was  out  of  tune,  but  it  was  a  gilded  piano. 

After  seeing  to  the  placing  of  her  bags  Parrish  de 
parted  with  his  bell  boy. 

"I'll  be  ready  in  an  hour,"  she  said,  giving  him  a 
gay  wave  of  dismissal. 

But  he  did  not  expect  her  to  be  ready  in  an  hour. 
His  experience  of  her  was  not  such  as  to  encourage 
hopes  of  promptness.  Moreover,  she  had  not 
brought  her  own  maid  with  her. 

In  leisurely  fashion  Parrish  unpacked  and  made 
ready  for  dinner;  then,  as  the  hour  was  up,  he  took 
the  small  bag  about  which  he  had  cautioned  the 
bell  boy,  walked  down  the  corridor,  and  knocked  at 
Rita's  door. 

"Come." 

She  was  moving  toward  him  as  he  entered.  Her 
henna-coloured  evening  gown  was  of  some  diaph- 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,3I 

anous  material  that  fluttered  as  she  crossed  the  room 
t  was  draped  with  infinite  art,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
to  fit  with  a  kind  of  haughtiness.     He  fancied  it  as 
being  proud  of  its  lines  and  its  fabric,  as  a  beautiful 
woman  is  proud  of  her  figure  and  the  texture  of  her 
skin.     The  stockings  and  the  little  satin  slippers 
being  of  the  colour  of  the  dress,  gave  a  characteristic 
look  of  completeness;  always  there  was  that  look 
about  her;  yet  Parrish  felt  instinctively  that  this 
completeness  was  achieved  without  much  effort  or 
indeed   much  thought  on   Rita's  part,   but   repre 
sented  rather  the  unhampered  art  of  costly  experts. 
"  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  ready,"  he  said,  praising 
her  appearance  with  his  eyes. 
"  I  said  an  hour." 

"  Yes,  but—  '  He  was  thinking  of  the  times  that 
she  had  disappointed  him;  but  instead  of  speaking 
the  thought,  shifted  to  a  mention  of  the  absence  of 
her  maid. 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "that's  easy.  I've  bought 
up  one  of  the  hotel  maids.'* 

Parrish  laid  his  bag  carefully  upon  the  table  by  the 
bowl  of  roses,  opened  it,  produced  bottles  and  a 
shaker,  and  having  secured  ice,  orange  juice,  and 
glasses,  made  cocktails. 

"  I  have  plenty  of  appetite  without  this,"  said  Rita, 
sipping. 

He  was  glad  that  she  was  hungry.  After  the 
manner  of  his  kind,  he  prided  himself  upon  a  certain 
skill  in  ordering,  and  as  to-night  he  was  for  the  first 


1 32  RITA  COVENTRY 

time  to  exercise  that  skill  for  Rita,  he  had  given  pre 
liminary  consideration  to  the  meal. 

First  they  would  have  Lynnhaven  Bay  oysters- 
real  Lynnhaven  Bays;  then  green-turtle  soup,  pro 
vided  the  green  turtle  was  fresh — he  would  inquire 
about  that;  then  a  filet  of  flounder — call  it  sole  if 
you  like — with  Marguery's  immortal  sauce:  he  was 
sure  that  Rita  would  appreciate  that  touch;  then  a 
broiled  live  lobster  with  drawn  butter,  to  be  followed 
by  a  salad  chiflfonade.  Sweets,  he  felt,  might  be 
dispensed  with.  Crackers  and  cheese — Roquefort  or 
port  du  salut — would  be  more  suitable.  Then  coffee. 

The  elevator  was  half  full  when  they  got  in.  He 
saw  a  woman  nudge  the  man  with  her,  calling  his 
attention  to  Rita,  and  the  two  stared  at  her  with 
unblinking  eyes  during  the  descent  to  the  main  floor. 
Clearly  they  recognized  her.  Clearly  many  people 
did.  Walking  with  her  through  the  lobby  and  down 
the  corridor  he  thought  he  could  tell  by  the  faces  of 
those  he  saw  looking  at  her  whether  they  knew  who 
she  was,  or  saw  in  her  only  a  woman  to  be  admired. 
One  man  stopped  and  stood  at  gaze,  inspecting  her 
as  a  gourmand  might  an  appetizing  dish  being  served  at 
another's  table.  He  was  a  coarse-looking  creature 
and  Parrish  would  have  liked  to  kick  him.  Rita,  how 
ever,  appeared  oblivious  of  ocular  intrusions;  she 
walked  among  strangers  as  she  might  have  among 
trees  in  a  forest. 

At  the  door  of  the  cafe  they  were  met  by  the  head 
waiter,  who  led  them  through  the  crowded  room  to 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,33 

a  table  bearing  a  card  marked  "  Reserved,"  and  drew 
out  their  chairs  with  an  extra  flourish. 

"  I  have  had  the  honour  to  serve  madame  at  the 
Carlton  in  London,"  he  declared  as  he  seated  Rita; 
and  it  was  over  her,  not  Parrish,  that  he  leaned  to 
discuss  the  dinner. 

This  was  a  novelty  to  Parrish,  who  was  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  receive  attention  from  head  waiters. 
He  had  realized,  of  course,  that  to  escort  Rita  would 
be  a  different  matter  from  escorting  a  woman  in 
private  life,  but  he  had  not  foreseen  how  great  the 
difference  would  be.  Interrupting  the  culinary  con 
ference  across  the  way,  he  began  to  outline  to  her 
the  dinner  he  had  contemplated,  but  before  he  could 
finish  she  broke  in. 

"  I  know  just  what  I  want.  I  want  a  porterhouse 
steak — medium — about  three  inches  thick."  As  she 
spoke  she  glanced  up  at  the  head  waiter,  measuring 
with  her  hands  in  exaggerated  illustration.  "And 
some  hashed  brown  potatoes,  and  soup — cream 
of  tomato — to  play  with  while  the  steak  is  cook 
ing." 

"  Bien,  madame."  The  man  made  swift  notes  on 
his  pad  and  came  around  the  table. 

"Monsieur  wishes  Lynnhaven  Bays?"  he  asked, 
his  pencil  poised  to  write. 

Parrish  hesitated,  but  only  for  the  briefest  mo 
ment.  Then  he  duplicated  Rita's  order. 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  let  my  vulgar  appetite  spoil 
your  dinner!"  she  protested. 


134  RITA  COVENTRY 

He  assured  her  that  the  things  she  had  ordered 
were  the  very  things  he  wanted;  nor  was  the  state 
ment  altogether  false.  Steak  and  hashed  brown 
potatoes  ordered  in  this  place  by  so  complete  a  cos 
mopolitan  as  Rita  constituted  not  a  barbarity  but 
a  gastronomic  playfulness  in  which  he  wished  to 
join,  precisely  as  he  would  have  wished  to  join  in 
any  other  playfulness  of  hers. 

The  orchestra,  which  had  been  finishing  a  trivial 
tune  as  they  came  in,  presently  began  again  to  play, 
but  this  time  it  was  Un  bel  di  vedremo,  from 
"Madame  Butterfly." 

"They've  found  me  out,"  Rita  told  him  with  a 
sigh. 

That  plainly  was  the  case.  The  violinist  who  led 
the  orchestra  kept  his  sad,  luminous  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  as  he  played,  and  this  directed  to  her  the  attention 
of  those  among  the  diners  who  had  not  already  no 
ticed  her.  It  was  to  her  rather  than  to  the  musicians 
that  people  looked  as  they  applauded  at  the  ter 
mination  of  the  aria,  and  to  her  that  the  violinist 
bowed  in  acknowledging  the  unusual  demonstration. 

"They're  pretty  sure  to  keep  this  up  until  we 
leave,"  she  said.  "It's  rather  awful  to  be  stared  at 
when  you're  eating,  isn't  it?  I've  always  thought 
the  animals  in  the  zoo  must  hate  it." 

"  I  could  speak  to  the  orchestra  leader,"  Parrish 
suggested.  But  Rita  demurred. 

"Oh,  no!  It's  intended  as  a  compliment,  and  I'm 
desperately  sorry  for  a  good  musician  who  has  to  play 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,35 

in  a  place  like  this.  Probably  this  man  used  to 
dream  of  becoming  a  Kreisler  or  a  Heifetz.  The 
chorus  of  the  opera  is  full  of  people  like  that— people 
who  have  dreamed  and  been  disappointed.  There's 
so  much  luck  about  it,  too.  Many's  the  time  I've 
looked  at  some  woman  in  our  chorus  and  thought 
what  John  Bunyan  thought  when  he  saw  the  man 
going  to  be  executed." 

Over  the  soup  they  fell  to  discussing  differences 
between  the  careers  of  artists  and  those  in  other  walks 
of  life. 

"The  failure  of  an  artist,"  said  Rita,  "seems  to  me 
doubly  tragic  because  the  artist  is  not  out  only  for  a 
living.  Being  poor  isn't  the  worst  of  it  for  him. 
He's  in  love.  If  his  art  jilts  him  it  breaks  his  heart, 
for  of  course  there's  no  love  greater  than  that  of  the 
artist  for  his  art." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  that,"  he  put  in  quickly, 
jealous  of  her  music. 

"Don't  you?"  She  inspected  him  with  quizzical 
eyes.  "Well,  it's  true.  Other  loves  come  and  go, 
but  the  love  for  an  art  never  changes.  If  anything, 
I  stated  it  too  moderately.  I  might  have  said  there 
isn't  any  love  so  great." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  reply.  He  was 
thinking  that  what  she  had  said  meant,  after  all, 
only  that  she  had  never  known  a  love  beyond  her  love 
for  music — not  yet.  Certainly  that  was  nothing  for 
him  to  deplore. 

Her  prevision  concerning  the  musical  programme 


136  RITA  COVENTRY 

proved  accurate.  Depuis  le  jour,  from  "Louise," 
became  the  entrance  music  for  their  steak,  and  was 
followed  by  melodies  from  "Tosca"  and  "La  Bo- 
heme,"  while  their  coffee  was  drunk  to  the  air  of 
Pres  des  Ramparts  de  Seville.  After  each  number 
there  was  the  same  applause,  the  same  bowing  of 
the  violinist  to  Rita,  the  same  concentrating  of  eyes 
upon  her. 

When,  having  lost  no  time  over  the  simple  meal, 
she  rose  to  leave,  people  at  near-by  tables  stopped 
talking  and  gazed  up  into  her  face,  and  as  she  moved 
toward  the  door,  Parrish,  walking  behind  her,  saw 
that  the  whole  room  turned  its  head.  The  violinist 
stood  and  made  her  a  profound  obeisance  as  she 
passed  the  musicians'  platform;  at  the  portal  the 
head  waiter  paid  her  like  homage,  and  as  she  emerged 
to  the  foyer  the  maid  from  the  ladies'  cloakroom 
hastened  forward  with  her  wrap. 

But  no  one  came  running  forward  with  Parrish's 
hat  and  coat.  The  olive-skinned  attendant  at  the 
men's  coat  room  stood  entranced,  gazing  at  Rita; 
Parrish  had  to  speak  to  him  crisply  before  the  trance 
was  broken.  Had  Rita  been  a  queen,  he  thought  to 
himself,  she  could  hardly  have  received  more  at 
tention;  then  with  a  little  inward  smile  he  added  the 
reflection  that  had  he  been  a  prince  consort  he  could 
hardly  have  received  less. 

"  If  I  should  ever  be  a  fugitive  from  justice,"  he 
said  to  her  as  they  made  their  way  toward  the  exit 
leading  to  the  Boardwalk,  "I  should  know  exactly 


RITA  COVENTRY  137 

what  to  do.  Instead  of  hiding  on  some  obscure 
island  where  they  live  on  pineapples,  bananas,  and 
rum  highballs,  I  should  conceal  myself  by  going 
everywhere  with  you." 

But,  as  he  was  to  learn  later,  that  form  of  self- 
concealment  was  not  so  effectual  as  he  had  supposed. 
Some  eyes,  there  were,  alert  enough  to  encompass 
both  Rita  and  her  escort.  By  one  such  pair  of  eyes 
— a  not  too  friendly  pair — he  had  been  recognized. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EMERGING  from  a  revolving  door  and  pass 
ing  by  a  wheel-chair  stand,  they  moved  up 
the  Boardwalk  in  the  direction  of  the  Inlet. 

The  night  was  dark.  The  moon  had  not  yet 
risen,  and  though  there  were  stars  overhead  they 
were  dimmed  by  the  Boardwalk  lamps.  Below  them 
the  beach  was  a  gray  mystery  fading  away  to  a 
blackness  within  which,  as  an  awakened  sleeper  may 
feel  the  presence  of  a  silent  moving  something  in  his 
room,  they  felt  the  presence  of  the  sea. 

A  mild  salt  breeze  blew  toward  them.  Ahead  the 
heart  of  the  Boardwalk  was  marked  by  an  electric 
brilliance  against  which  wheel-chairs  and  prome- 
naders  were  revealed  in  shifting  silhouette.  Nor  was  the 
brilliance  to  be  seen  only  along  that  way  of  pleasure 
with  its  rows  of  clustered  lamps  and  its  bright  shop 
fronts;  by  a  ladder  of  illuminated  windows  it  mounted 
to  where,  above  the  hotel  roofs,  the  sky  was  rest 
lessly  alive  with  the  changeful  dotted  glitter  of  great 
advertising  signs. 

As  Rita  took  his  arm  and  stepped  out  beside  him 
he  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  she  did  not  amble 
after  the  fashion  of  most  women,  but  strode  with  a 
fine  swinging  gait,  making  necessary  but  a  slight 

138 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,39 

abridgment  of  his  own  normal  step.  It  was  like  an 
expression  of  her  spirit,  that  free,  elastic  tread. 

He  leaned  forward  a  little  and  looked  down  at  her 
slippers  swiftly  appearing  and  disappearing  below  the 
hem  of  her  cloak — satin  trifles,  frail  and  exquisite, 
with  soles  wafer  thin  and  heels  of  a  voluptuous 
violinlike  curvature. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  wonderingly,  "that  those 
slippers  are  fully  as  durable  as  morning-glories." 

"Oh,  they're  stronger  than  they  look." 

"They  must  be." 

For  a  time  he  was  silent,  his  mind  taken  up  with 
the  miracle  of  woman's  dress,  which  is  to  man  the 
most  baffling  thing  about  her.  For  man  feels  that 
even  supposing  he  could  walk  in  slippers  such  as  hers 
they  would  be  ruined  in  the  distance  of  a  block  or 
two,  while  as  for  her  gowns — made  seemingly  from 
wisps  of  rainbow,  sunset,  and  the  Milky  Way — he 
knows  that  such  things,  worn  by  him,  would  not  en 
dure  an  hour. 

His  ruminations  on  this  theme  were  interrupted 
when  she  drew  him  over  to  a  lighted  show-window 
containing  dainty  bits  of  feminine  equipment  at 
which  she  wished  to  look. 

As  they  moved  on  again  he  shifted  the  position  of 
his  arm,  bracing  it  behind  hers  so  that  her  elbow 
found  a  cradle  in  the  crook  of  his,  her  wrist  resting  in 
his  hand.  Holding  her  thus  firmly  he  was  more 
than  ever  conscious  of  moving  with  her  in  delightful 
unison. 


140  RITA  COVENTRY 

They  wandered  out  upon  a  pier  and  back  again; 
then,  having  resumed  their  way  along  the  Board 
walk,  were  attracted  by  sounds  of  snapping  rifles 
and  clanging  target  gongs  to  a  shooting  gallery,  where 
they  stood  for  a  time  looking  on.  The  shooting 
gallery  fascinated  Rita;  presently  she  announced  a 
wish  to  try  her  marksmanship;  and  when,  after  a 
little  coaching,  her  bullets  began  to  break  clay  pipes, 
ring  gongs,  and  knock  over  moving  models  of  ani 
mals,  she  became  enthusiastic  as  a  child,  and  chal 
lenged  Parrish  to  a  match. 

"The  loser  to  give  the  winner  a  prize,"  he  speci 
fied. 

"All  right.     What  shall  it  be?" 

"That's  for  the  loser  to  decide." 

It  was  his  purpose  to  allow  himself  to  be  defeated 
and  to  make  his  vanquishment  an  excuse  for  giving 
her  a  present.  He  had  been  wishing  to  give  her  a 
present.  What  it  should  be  he  had  not  determined 
beyond  the  fact  that  it  should  be  something  exquisite 
and  precious;  something  worthy  of  her  and  of  his 
feeling  for  her;  a  piece  of  jewellery,  doubtless;  perhaps 
a  linked  bracelet  of  platinum  and  diamonds  such  as 
he  had  thought  of  giving  Alice  for  her  birthday,  ex 
cept  that  for  Rita  the  diamonds  must  be  larger  to 
bear  comparison  with  her  other  jewels.  Not  that 
he  had  the  least  thought  of  overlooking  Alice's  birth 
day.  Of  course  he  would  get  her  something:  some 
thing  nice,  though  less  expensive  than  a  diamond 
bracelet.  He  simply  could  not  afford  two. 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,4, 

Rita  having  emptied  the  magazine  of  her  rifle  and 
made  a  not  discreditable  score,  Parrish  began  to 
shoot. 

"  I  must  miss  about  every  other  shot,"  he  said  to 
himself,  and  he  commenced  by  doing  so.  Then  it 
struck  him  that  Rita  might  notice  the  even  balance 
between  the  hits  and  misses;  wherefore  he  began  to 
vary  his  programme,  with  the  result  that  he  lost  count 
of  his  score.  He  found  it,  moreover,  curiously  dif 
ficult  deliberately  to  take  false  aim.  Two  or  three 
times  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  must  miss  this  one," 
yet  when  he  fired  he  would  not  miss.  The  targets 
drew  his  rifle  barrel  as  the  magnetic  pole  a  needle. 
It  was  easy  enough  to  miss  if  you  didn't  want  to, 
but  it  was  not  easy  to  do  it  by  intent.  Trying  to 
miss  was  like  trying  to  lose  at  cards;  to  bring  one 
self  to  do  it — in  a  competition,  and  against  a  woman 
who  had  never  held  a  gun  before — was  absurdly  dif 
ficult,  yet  Parrish,  as  he  fired  his  last  shot,  be 
lieved  that  he  had  thrown  the  match  to  Rita. 

"Well,  you  win,"  he  said,  laying  down  the  little 
rifle. 

"Why,  no!" 

"Certainly  you  do!" 

The  attendant  set  him  right. 

"You  trimmed  the  lady  by  one  hit,"  said  he. 

Parrish  was  surprised.  However,  it  didn't  matter; 
really  he  needed  no  excuse  for  giving  her  the  bracelet. 

"You  shot  well  for  a  beginner,"  he  said  as  they 
proceeded  up  the  Boardwalk. 


1 42  RITA  COVENTRY 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so.  It's  lots  of  fun.  Now 
you  shall  have  your  prize." 

Like  a  child  at  a  party  he  was  wondering  what  the 
prize  would  be. 

"Now?" 

"Yes.  We'll  go  in  here."  She  was  heading  him 
up  a  short  connecting  walk  leading  to  the  door  of  a 
hotel  grillroom. 

"For  the  prize?" 

"Yes.     The  prize  is  an  ice." 

He  was  a  little  disappointed.  Not  that  he  desired 
a  handsome  gift  from  her — had  she  proposed  such 
a  thing  he  would  have  protested,  and  sincerely — but 
he  wished  that  she  had  thought  of  something  more 
personal  and  less  trivial;  something  he  could  keep. 

This  grillroom  was  one  of  the  gayest  dancing  places 
on  the  Boardwalk.  The  half-dozen  negroes  who 
supplied  the  music  were  not  playing  when  he  and 
Rita  entered,  and  the  vacant  central  space  with  its 
surrounding  banks  of  tables  made  Parrish  think  of 
the  sandy  bed  of  some  drought-stricken  stream. 
Then  the  drum  rolled  and  there  came  a  burst  of 
jazz  music,  whereupon  the  empty  space  was  inun 
dated,  becoming  a  whirlpool  on  whose  surface  danc 
ing  figures  drifted  round  and  round,  bobbing,  sway 
ing,  spinning  this  way  and  that,  like  flotsam  at  the 
mercy  of  capricious  currents. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  to  dance?"  she  pres 
ently  demanded. 

The  proposal  came  as  a  mild  shock  to  Parrish. 


RITA  COVENTRY  143 

In  his  twenties  he  had  enjoyed  dancing,  and  though 
his  interest  in  it  had  diminished  with  his  advance 
into  the  thirties,  he  had  remained  a  "dancing  man"  un 
til,  more  than  a  year  ago,  at  the  time  of  Clara 
Proctor's  protracted  visit  to  Alice,  in  New  York,  he 
had  found  it  expedient  to  renounce  the  pastime. 

In  this  renunciation  Clara  had  been  the  determin 
ing  factor,  for  there  had  come  to  the  apartment  in 
her  train  a  following  of  sleek-haired,  facile-footed 
youths  whose  entire  thought  and  talk  was  of  dancing 
places,  orchestras,  tunes,  and  steps;  and  though  Par- 
rish  had,  on  Alice's  account,  tried  at  first  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  Clara  and  these  friends  of  hers, 
taking  the  two  girls  and  the  young  men  on  several 
nocturnal  jaunts  to  realms  of  jazz,  he  had  soon  per 
ceived  that  Clara  and  the  youths— her  troupe  of 
trained  seals,  she  called  them — regarded  him  as 
nothing  more  than  a  convenience:  someone  to  pro 
vide  liquor  and  a  limousine  and  settle  restaurant 
checks.  Neither  for  Alice  nor  for  him  did  they  show 
the  least  consideration;  once  they  became  ensconced 
in  some  noisy,  half-disreputable  dancing  place,  they 
were  never  ready  to  go  home.  He  did  not  care  for 
Broadway  night  life  and  knew  that  Alice  liked  it  not 
at  all;  each  time  he  took  them  out  he  saw  her  grow 
ing  fatigued  with  the  din  as  the  night  wore  on,  and 
himself  tired  and  bored,  would  finally  suggest  that 
it  was  time  to  go;  but  only  to  be  overruled  by  Clara 
and  the  youths,  who  under  the  combined  spell  of 
jazz  and  highballs  seemed  to  contract  a  mild  hys- 


i44  RITA  COVENTRY 

teria,  a  dancing  frenzy  which  possessed  them  like 
some  demon  that  only  the  light  of  dawn  could  ex 
orcise. 

After  several  of  these  unsatisfactory  experiments 
Parrish  ceased  to  invite  them  out.  But  they  con 
tinued  to  go,  and  Clara,  who  did  not  wish  to  be  the 
only  woman  in  the  party,  was  constantly  tugging  at 
Alice,  endeavouring  to  persuade  her  to  accompany 
them.  This  put  Alice  between  two  fires:  she  did  not 
wish  to  go,  and  knew  that  he  did  not  wish  her  to, 
yet  sometimes  she  felt  in  duty  bound  to  accompany 
her  visitor. 

It  was  when  he  perceived  Clara's  persistent  selfish 
ness  that  Parrish  put  his  foot  down.  Partly  to  pro 
tect  Alice  from  further  imposition,  partly  to  protect 
himself  from  the  continual  intrusions  of  Clara  and 
the  youths  when  he  and  Alice  wished  to  be  alone, 
he  declared  his  purpose  of  giving  up  dancing  alto 
gether  and  asked  Alice  to  join  him  in  so  doing.  Of 
course  she  agreed;  she  always  did  as  he  asked  her  to. 
From  that  day  to  this  he  had  not  danced;  and  that 
fact — of  course  without  the  details — was  his  excuse 
to  Rita  now. 

"  I  haven't  danced  for  a  long  time,"  he  told  her. 

"Oh,  never  mind.     Come  on." 

She  had  already  risen  and  there  was  nothing  else 
for  it.  Reluctantly  he  accompanied  her  to  the  floor. 
Then  all  at  once  reluctance  turned  into  delight;  the 
flow  of  music  caught  and  carried  them  away  as 
easily  as  if  they  were  adrift  on  a  swift  stream  in  a 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,45 

canoe.     He  might  have  known  that  it  would  be  like 
this! 

"And  you  didn't  want  to!"  said  she  in  light  re 
proach. 

She  was  all  music.  Her  speaking  voice,  rich  and 
mellifluous,  was  like  her  tread  in  walking,  while 
her  dancing — ah,  it  was  like  a  song  expressed  in 
motion. 

"  I  want  to  close  my  eyes,"  he  said. 

"Do,  then.     I'll  guide." 

He  let  his  lids  fall,  and  in  that  artificial  darkness, 
surcharged  with  melody  and  movement,  experienced 
an  exquisite  sensation  as  of  soaring  with  her  in  a 
perfect  oneness  through  a  vast  sweet  night. 

"Now,"  he  murmured,  "we  are  far  up  among  the 
stars.  How  huge  the  heavens  are!  We  must  hold 
to  each  other,  Rita,  or  we  may  get  lost." 

His  eyes,  opening,  encountered  hers.  Not  since 
the  night  of  their  first  meeting  had  he  looked  into 
them  at  this  close  range;  and  now,  as  then,  he  gazed 
like  one  who  seeks  to  penetrate  the  depths  of  some 
unfathomable  sea. 

"Are  you  sorry  we  danced?"  she  asked  with  the 
shadow  of  a  smile  as  the  music  died  away. 

She  knew  he  was  not  sorry,  and  he  told  her  so  as 
they  moved  toward  their  table. 

"And  yet,"  he  added,  "I  don't  want  to  dance 
again— not  now;  perhaps  never  again.  I  want  to 
keep  this  memory." 

She  nodded,  then  suggested,  "Shall  we  go?" 


146  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Yes,  if  you'd  just  as  soon.  Let's  go  out  and  look 
up  at  those  stars  we  were  among  a  little  while  ago." 

But  when  they  first  emerged  from  that  brightly 
lighted  place  they  could  not  see  the  stars.  Above 
the  glitter  of  the  Boardwalk  lamps  the  sky  looked 
black.  Not  until  they  had  walked  halfway  to  their 
hotel,  accustoming  their  eyes  to  this  lesser  bril 
liance,  could  they  discern  dim  pinpoints  of  light 
overhead. 

"Let's  go  out  on  the  balcony,"  he  said  when  they 
reached  Rita's  sitting  room;  and  as  obediently  she 
opened  the  French  windows  he  switched  off  the 
lights. 

How  different  now  the  aspect  of  the  heavens! 
Half  the  universe  seemed  to  be  spread  out  before 
them:  the  great  dome,  star-dusted,  overhead;  and 
below,  stretching  away  to  a  mysterious  horizon,  a 
sea  of  blackness  on  which  white  lines  of  surf  con 
tinually  formed  and  faded. 

"It's  our  world,"  he  said  when  they  had  stood  for 
a  time  by  the  railing  looking  out  at  the  stupendous 
spectacle.  "It's  all  ours.  No  one  else  can  look  at 
it  without  permission  from  us.  We'll  issue  a  few 
tickets;  but  only  to  a  select  group,  and  they  mustn't 
stand  where  we  can  see  them;  and  of  course  they 
must  be  lovers." 

"Yes." 

His  arm  stole  around  her.  He  leaned  and  let  his 
cheek  touch  hers.  How  cool  and  sweet  it  was;  how 
soft  her  hair  against  his  brow!  His  arm  about  her 


RITA  COVENTRY  147 

trembled.  He  turned  her  toward  him,  closed  his 
eyes,  and  with  that  power  of  divination  that  comes 
in  the  dark  to  lovers,  found  her  lips. 

One  of  her  hands  was  resting  on  the  sleeve  of 
his  overcoat,  and  now  he  could  feel  it  creeping  up 
ward  slowly  like  some  little  animal  seeking  a  nesting 
place — along  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  so  around  his 
neck. 

"Tell  me  you  love  me,  Rita!" 

She  moved  her  head  as  though  in  acquiescence. 

"But  tell  me!    Say  it!" 

She  drew  away  a  little. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said.  "That  is—  And 

there  she  stopped. 

"A  lot?" 

She  did  not  answer  instantly;  she  seemed  to  be 
questioning  herself;  then,  "Yes,"  she  replied,  "1 
think  a  lot." 

"But  if  you  love  me  a  lot,"  he  asked  her,  "why 
did  you  want  to  qualify  at  all?" 

"Only  because  these  things— if  I  shouldn't  love 
you  always  so  much  as  you  wish  me  to — if  it  should 
end — why,  then  I— 

He  did  not  hear  her  out. 

"But  it's  not  going  to  end!"  he  cried  savagely, 
drawing  her  close  to  him  again.  "  It's  going  to  grow! 
It's  going  to  be  the  big  consuming  thing  in  both  our 
lives!  You'll  see!  You'll  see!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

HE  WAS  already  thinking  of  Rita  when  early 
next     morning    he    awoke.    Sunlight    was 
streaming  into  his  open  windows  with  the 
fresh  salt  air.     His  sleep  had  miraculously  refreshed 
him.     He  leaped  out  of  bed  like  a  happy  boy,  and 
sang  to  the  accompaniment  of  his  running  bath  water 
and  the  metrical  click  of  his  razor  on  the  strop. 

Few  people  were  in  the  dining  room  at  that  early 
hour,  and  when,  having  breakfasted,  he  passed  out 
to  the  Boardwalk  he  was  astonished  at  its  emptiness. 
It  was  like  Wall  Street  on  a  Sunday,  he  reflected;  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  something  as  star 
tling  in  the  spectacle  of  emptiness  where  usually  there 
is  a  crowd,  as  in  the  spectacle  of  crowds  in  places 
usually  deserted. 

As  for  a  moment  he  leaned  upon  the  iron  railing, 
drawing  deep  breaths  of  mild,  invigorating  air  and 
watching  the  surf  break  on  the  golden  sand,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  never  smelled  a  breeze  so  sweet 
or  seen  a  sun  so  brilliant.  What  a  pity,  he  thought,  as 
he  walked  briskly  off,  that  everyone  was  not  out  to 
enjoy  the  morning.  What  a  pity  that  Rita  was  not 
up  to  walk  with  him.  But  she  had  told  him  that 
eleven  was  her  hour  for  rising. 

148 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,4g 

By  half-past  ten  he  was  back  at  the  hotel,  waiting 
in  his  room,  and  promptly  at  eleven  he  telephoned  to 

His  good  morning  had  the  sound  of  a  caress 
How  did  you  sleep?"  he  asked. 
"Splendidly.     And  you?" 

He  told  of  his  early  start,  his  walk,  the  glory  of 
the  day. 

"You   never   saw   such   a   morning.     You   must 
hurry  and  get  out." 

"But  you  won't  want  to  walk  any  more,  will 
you?" 

"Just  try  me!    When  will  you  be  ready?" 

"I'll  hurry  all  I  can." 

"Let  me  come  and  sit  while  you  have  breakfast." 

"I've  had  my  breakfast." 

"Then  let  me  wait  in  your  parlour  while  you're 
getting  ready." 

"The  piano  tuner's  there." 

"Oh."     He  wanted  so  much  to  see  her.     It  was 
hard  to  wait. 

"I'll  meet  you  in  the  lobby  in  an  hour,"  she  told  him. 
This  morning,  however,  she  was  not  punctual. 
Five  minutes — ten  minutes — fifteen  minutes  past  the 
appointed  time  he  sat  watching  the  elevators.  There 
began  to  return  to  him  dimly,  like  memories  of  a 
nightmare,  recollections  of  other  times  when  he  had 
waited  for  her  thus — in  vain.  Matters  were,  how 
ever,  on  a  different  footing  now;  there  would  be  no 
more  of  that  miserable  uncertainty;  this  was  the 
merest  little  tardiness. 


1 5o  RITA  COVENTRY 

Still — what  was  keeping  her?  She  ought  surely 
to  be  down  by  now.  He  would  go  to  his  room  and 
ring  her  up  again.  He  ascended,  and  alighting  from 
the  elevator  moved  down  the  corridor;  but  instead  of 
stopping  at  his  own  door,  as  he  had  intended  to,  he 
continued  until  he  came  to  hers.  As  he  drew  near 
he  heard  the  muffled  sound  of  a  piano,  and  he  was 
raising  his  hand  to  knock  when  he  realized  that  the 
music  was  coming  from  within. 

Ah,  that,  then,  was  the  cause  of  the  delay!  Nat 
urally.  The  piano  tuner  having  completed  his  work, 
Rita  was  trying  out  the  instrument  and,  artist-like, 
had  lost  account  of  time. 

Without  knocking  he  paused.  Save  on  the  night 
of  her  dinner  party  in  New  York,  when  she  had  ac 
companied  herself  in  "Drink  to  Me  Only  with 
Thine  Eyes,"  he  had  never  heard  her  play,  and  he 
was  astounded  now  by  the  brilliance  of  her  virtu 
osity. 

The  composition  she  was  playing  was  not  fa 
miliar  to  him.  It  was  a  strange  air,  full  of  curious 
melancholy  cadences.  He  stood  motionless,  listen 
ing,  until  the  last  notes  had  been  struck.  Then  he 
knocked. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  that  you  were 
playing?"  he  said  to  Rita  when  she  opened  the 
door.  "  I  should  have  loved  to  sit  and  listen." 

As  he  took  a  step  toward  her  she  drew  back 
quickly,  raising  her  hand  in  warning. 

A  young  man  was  seated  upon  the  piano  bench. 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,5I 

His  back  was  turned  and  he  did  not  look  around, 
but  it  was  unmistakably  a  young  back,  and  there 
was  something  youthful,  too,  in  the  look  of  the  brown 
curly  hair,  thick  and  short  cropped,  which  stood  upon 
the  head  like  sculptured  hair  upon  a  Greek  statue. 

"Oh!"  said  Parrish  vaguely,  looking  at  the  back. 

"It  was  Mr.— ah—  Rita  paused,  giving  the 

stranger  time  to  announce  his  name;  then,  as  he 
neither  spoke  nor  turned  his  head,  but  did  a  light 
swift  run  with  his  left  hand,  she  raised  her  voice 
slightly  to  indicate  to  him  that  he  was  being  spoken 
to,  saying,  "I  don't  think  you  told  me  your  name?" 

At  that  the  other  pivoted  slowly. 

"Delaney,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her. 

"This  is  Mr.  Parrish,  Mr.  Delaney." 

The  young  man  seemed  to  see  Parrish  now  for  the 
first  time.  He  gave  him  a  nod,  making  simultane 
ously  a  slight  throaty  sound  which  the  older  man 
interpreted  as  meaning,  "How  are  you?" 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Parrish,  advancing  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  Meanwhile,  he  was  thinking, 
"He  doesn't  mean  to  be  rude;  he's  shy  and  awk 
ward." 

Thus  cornered,  Mr.  Delaney  got  up  from  the 
piano  bench  and  shook  hands,  hastily,  as  one  who 
would  fain  get  something  over  with.  Though  his 
hand  was  not  large  it  was  square  and  strong;  there 
was  a  nervous  quality  in  the  grip  it  gave,  and  in  its 
quick  escape;  Parrish  felt  as  if  his  hand  had  been 
dropped. 


1 52  RITA  COVENTRY 

The  young  man's  glance  was  like  his  handshake. 
The  light-blue  eyes,  large,  intelligent,  and  slightly 
prominent,  held  a  vague  expression  as  they  encoun 
tered  Parrish's,  and  they  dropped  quickly,  seeming 
first  to,  study  the  other's  scarf  and  then  his  watch- 
chain. 

If  Mr.  Delaney's  manner  was  unusual,  so  was  his 
physiognomy.  His  was  not  one  of  those  faces  that 
fall  conveniently  under  some  everyday  classification ; 
Parrish  had  never  known  any  one  who  looked  in  the 
least  like  him,  yet  he  was  perplexed  by  a  paradoxical 
feeling  that  the  face  was  familiar.  It  was  a  Celtic 
face,  although  the  strongly  modelled  features  had  the 
kind  of  regularity  we  associate  with  the  art  of  classic 
Greece — a  fact  rendered  the  more  striking  by  the 
sculptured  hair  growing  well  down  upon  the  fore 
head.  Suddenly  Parrish  knew  why  the  face  had 
seemed  familiar.  Mr.  Delaney  was  a  prototype  of 
the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles — a  slenderer  Hermes  in 
a  shoddy  suit  of  twentieth-century  clothing.  Of 
course!  Why,  he  even  had  the  soft  cheek  of  Hermes 
and  the  look  of  immortal  youth,  albeit  Parrish 
judged  his  age  to  be  twenty-five  or  twenty-six. 

Now,  wishing  to  put  the  other  at  his  ease,  the  older 
man  spoke  cordially. 

"That  was  a  lovely  thing  you  were  playing,"  he 
said.  "I  waited  outside  the  door.  What  was  it?" 

Delaney  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trousers 
pockets,  bent  his  head  forward  as  though  studying 
his  feet,  and  took  a  few  steps  down  the  room. 


RITA  COVENTRY  153 

"  You  wouldn't  know  it,"  he  declared.  "  It's  part 
of  a  concerto." 

"His  own,"  Rita  put  in  quickly. 

"You  don't  say!" 

The  youth  had  turned  and  was  now  by  the  piano 
again. 

"Play  it  over,  won't  you?"  she  said. 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly,  shaking  his  head,  then 
looked  down  at  his  shoes  again. 

"No.     I  told  you  I  hadn't  worked  it  out." 

"Why,  yes,  you  have.  Certainly  that  andantino 
movement  is— 

"Not  andantino — adagietto,"  he  corrected. 

Rita  smiled. 

"There's  very  little  difference,"  she  replied. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Mr.  Delaney,  show 
ing  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  frown  and  raising  his 
voice  to  a  slightly  higher  tenor  note,  "but  there  is 
every  difference.  There  is  exactly  the  same  differ 
ence  as  between  andante  and  adagio." 

Parrish  looked  expectantly  at  Rita,  but  she  only 
answered,  "Perhaps  you're  right." 

"Certainly  I  am  right.  Otherwise,  why  the 
term?"  Then,  as  she  failed  to  reply,  but  stood  gaz 
ing  curiously  at  him,  he  said,  "Let  me  show  you— in 
this  song,"  and  slipping  down  to  the  piano  bench 
again,  began  to  play. 

Rita  followed  him  to  the  piano  and  stood  behind 
him,  watching  his  hands  closely. 

"Here,"  he  said;  "when  I  play  it  this  way  it's 


154  RITA  COVENTRY 

andantino;  but  if  I  do  it  like  this,  then  it's  adagietto." 
He  looked  around  at  her.  "You  see?" 

She  dismissed  the  elucidation  with  a  little  nod, 
asking: 

"Is  that  yours,  too?" 

"Yes." 

"Unpublished?" 

"Yes.     I've  had  nothing  published." 

"It's  a  folksong,  isn't  it?" 

"An  arrangement  of  'Bonnie  Doon,'"  said  he. 
"The  familiar  arrangement  always  irritated  me. 
It's  such  a  silly  jig-tune." 

To  Parrish  "  Bonnie  Doon"  was  one  of  several  folk 
songs  that  were  sacred.  He  remembered  his  mother's 
singing  it,  long  ago,  at  the  old  square  piano,  and  did  not 
like  to  hear  it  spoken  of  with  disrespect.  Moreover, 
he  was  revising  his  first  impression  of  Mr.  Delaney. 

"Silly  jig-tune?"  he  repeated  in  a  tone  slightly 
hostile. 

"Exactly,"  replied  the  other.  "It's  all  chopped 
up."  Then,  lifting  his  light  voice  in  song  he  cruelly 
burlesqued  the  ancient  arrangement : 

"Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bob-bonn-nie  Doo-boon, 
How  caa-hann  ye  bloo-hoom  sae  fre-hesh  and  fair " 


"You  see?"  he  said  over  his  shoulder.  "The  mu 
sic  doesn't  fit  the  words  at  all." 

"  For  a  good  many  years,"  Parrish  remarked  dryly, 
"people  have  been  under  an  impression  that  they 
fitted." 


RITA  COVENTRY  155 

"Well,  they  don't,"  said  the  other.  "That's  only 
one  of  many  queer  impressions  people  have.  They're 
full  of  'em.  Most  people  think  that  air  was  written 
for  'Bonnie  Doon,'  but  it  wasn't.  Not  any  more 
than  my  suit  was  made  for  you.  It  was  written  for 
an  entirely  different  song." 

"Nevertheless,"  pursued  Parrish,  "I  contend  that 
there  is  a  delightful  quaintness  about  it." 

"Oh,"  said  the  other,  "if  you're  talking  of  quaint- 
ness—  He  gave  a  shrug.  "I'm  talking  about 
the  fitting  of  music  to  words." 

"Play  your  arrangement  again,"  Rita  put  in 
quickly. 

Delaney  did  so. 

"  Really,"  she  exclaimed  when  he  had  finished,  "it's 
lovely."  She  looked  at  Parrish,  asking,  "  Isn't  it?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said;  "but- 

"And  you  mean  to  say,"  she  went  on,  "that  you 
haven't  published  any  of  these  charming  things  of 
yours?" 

"I've  sent  them  around,"  said  he. 

"And  nobody  would  take  them?" 

"Nobody  except  one  fly-by-night  firm  that  wanted 
me  to  pay  to  have  them  published."  He  smiled  up 
at  her. 

"They  will  take  them!"  Rita  cried. 

"Maybe— some  day,"  he  returned  coolly,  still 
smiling  up  at  her,  while  his  hands  fluttered  over  the 
keyboard  in  a  light  improvisation.  "Some  day 
after  I'm  dead,  I  guess." 


I56  RITA  COVENTRY 

The  idea  seemed  genuinely  to  amuse  him,  as  if  it 
were  a  jest,  not  at  his  own  expense,  but  at  the  ex 
pense  of  music  publishers.  His  smile  was  infectious; 
his  face  lighted  with  it,  his  eyes  looked  roguish, 
dimples  appeared  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  lips,  drawn 
back,  revealed  two  rows  of  hard  white  teeth. 
Though  the  young  man  had  incensed  him,  and  though 
the  smile  was  not  for  him,  Parrish  found  himself  al 
most  betrayed  into  an  answering  smile.  He  checked 
the  impulse.  Rita,  however,  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  If  you're  planning  to  die  before  they  publish 
your  arrangement  of  'Bonnie  Doon,'"  she  said, 
"you'll  have  to  hurry  up." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Because  it's  going  to  be  published  at  once!" 

Unmoved,  he  demanded  again,  "What  makes  you 
think  so?" 

"I'm  going  to  tell  them  to — that's  why!" 

"And  you  think  that  when  you  tell  them  to 

"Right  off!"  she  answered,  amused.  Plainly  she 
was  delighted  with  the  situation. 

"You  just  give  me  the  manuscript  of  that  song," 
she  went  on,  "and  two  or  three  other  things.  I'll 
take  them  with  me.  I'll  have  contracts  drawn.  My 
lawyer  will 

"There  isn't  any  manuscript.  I've  never  written 
it." 

"Heavens!     Make  one,  then." 

"All  right.     I  suppose  I  could  do  it  to-night." 

"Not  to-night— now." 


RITA  COVENTRY  157 

"  I  haven't  any  ruled  paper." 

Again  she  laughed. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I'll  rule  the  paper  for  you." 

"But  my  job — I've  got  four  more  pianos  to  tune 
to-day." 

"Your  job!"  she  repeated  scornfully.  "Why, 
it's  ridiculous,  with  your  gift — tuning  pianos!  It's 
a  crime!"  In  her  excitement  she  took  him  by 
the  shoulder  and  shook  him  gently  for  emphasis. 
"Don't  you  ever  tune  another — do  you  hear!" 

"That's  all  very  well,"  he  answered,  "but  I  have 
a  family  to  look  after.  I  have  to  get  a  certain 
amount  of  money  every  week." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  showing  mild  surprise,  "you're 
married?  Children?" 

"No!  Married?  I  should  say  not!  It's  my 
mother  and  sister." 

"You  don't  look  married,"  she  said.  Then  dis 
missing  the  subject,  "Well,  anyway,  you're  coming 
to  New  York  right  off,  and  I'm  going  to— 

"  I  can't  afford  to  go  to  New  York." 

"You  can't  afford  not  to!  Don't  you  understand 
there's  going  to  be  business  with  music  publishers 
for  you  to  attend  to?"  As  if  at  the  vision  of  his 
attending  to  business  she  laughed  again. 

"You  don't  seem  to  get  it  through  your  head,"  he 
declared  doggedly,  "that  I  have  my  living  to  make. 
It's  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents." 

He  was  playing  his  arrangement  of  "  Bonnie  Doon  " 
again,  pianissimo. 


1 58  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Oh,"  she  cried  impatiently,  "forget  those  dollars 
and  cents  for  a  minute,  won't  you?" 

"I  can't." 

"But  that  part  is  easy!"  There  was  a  note  of 
triumph  in  her  voice.  "The  point  is  that  I'm  going 
to  sing  your  songs  in  concert.  Do  you  see?  I'll 
sing  your  'Bonnie  Doon'  at  a  benefit  next  week. 
You'll  accompany  me,  and  when— 

"Not  in  E  major,"  he  interrupted.  Hastily  he 
transposed  the  song  a  half  tone  lower.  "  E  flat  is 
better  for  you." 

"No,  it  isn't!    Why  is  it?" 

There  was  a  sudden  crispness  in  her  voice,  which 
Parrish  thought  boded  ill  for  the  young  man.  But 
Mr.  Delaney  was  apparently  unconscious  of  the  men 
ace. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  insisted  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone, 
"that  song  in  E  major  would  bring  out  all  the  worst 
notes  in  your  upper  register."  As  he  spoke  he 
thumped  heavily  upon  three  successive  keys. 

Parrish  saw  Rita  clench  her  fist.  There  was  a  mo 
ment  during  which  she  stared  speechless  at  the  youth 
ful  back  in  its  wretched  belted  coat.  But  though 
the  lightning  played  for  an  instant  in  her  eyes  it  did 
not  strike.  When  she  spoke  her  tone  was  calm. 

"Oh,  you've  heard  me,  then?" 

"A  dozen  times.  I  worked  in  New  York  all  last 
winter.  You're  wonderful  in  'Louise." 

The  little  laugh  she  gave  seemed  to  originate  in 
the  region  of  her  solar  plexus. 


RITA  COVENTRY  159 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,  that  I'm  not  much  good  in 
my  other  roles?" 

At  that  he  turned  around  and  looked  at  her  ear 
nestly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  at  all!  I  meant  musically. 
Histrionically,  of  course,  nobody  can  touch  you. 
Except  perhaps  in  'Butterfly." 

Rita  grinned. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "for  these  very  few  kind 
words." 

The  other  stared  at  her,  puzzled.  A  flush  like  that 
of  a  rosy  baby  spread  over  his  face.  He  rose,  pro 
testing. 

"Oh,"  he  blurted,  "I  didn't  mean  to— I— I  didn't 
mean— 

"Never  mind  what  you  meant,"  said  Rita,  shaking 
her  head  hopelessly.  Then  moving  toward  the 
desk,  she  ordered,  "Come  over  here  and  write  that 
music." 

Parrish,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  French 
windows  leading  to  the  now  sunlit  balcony,  turned 
quickly. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  to  her,  "  I— if  we're  not  going 
to  get  that  walk — if  you're  going  to  write  this  music 
—there's  no  use  in  my  hanging  around  any  longer. 

I'll  just— ah "  Without  finishing,  he  moved 

definitely  toward  the  door. 

Leaving  Delaney  at  the  desk  Rita  crossed  and  laid 
a  detaining  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "but— you 


160  RITA  COVENTRY 

see?"  With  an  expressive  jerk  of  the  head  she 
indicated  the  musician,  who  was  already  writing 
busily.  "He  won't  be  long.  Let's  lunch  at  half- 
past  one — up  here.  We'll  have  our  walk  after 
wards." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  But  even  before  she  pressed 
his  arm  and  showed  him  the  smile,  he  was  feeling  that 
"all  right"  was  not  enough. 

"That  will  be  fine,"  he  added. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN,  after  a  second  walk,  Parn'sh  as 
cended  again  to  Rita's  sitting  room  he 
found  Mr.  Delaney  all  but  ready  to  de 
part.     The  young  man  glanced  at  him  quickly  as 
Rita  let  him  in,  then  took  up  his  overcoat  and  made 
haste  to  put  it  on. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  said  Parrish  with  politeness. 
Stepping  behind  the  young  man  he  lifted  at  the 
collar  of  the  overcoat.  But  the  garment  did  not 
slip  on  easily. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  other  after  a  moment's 
struggle.  "This  sleeve  lining  is  torn." 

He  withdrew  his  arm  from  one  sleeve,  then  care 
fully  reinserted  it  and  manoeuvred  it  through.  Hav 
ing  donned  the  coat  he  turned  up  the  collar  as  if  that 
were  the  natural  way  to  wear  it;  then  drawing  a 
checked  cloth  cap  from  a  pocket  with  one  hand,  he 
reached  down  with  the  other  and  took  from  the  floor 
a  small  tan  satchel,  which,  though  stamped  in  imi 
tation  of  alligator  skin,  was  plainly  made  of  card 
board.  A  muffled  clink  of  tools  came  from  within 
the  bag  as  he  lifted  it. 

"Then  it's  all  settled,"  said  Rita,  offering  her 
hand. 

161 


1 62  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Yes." 

He  snatched  the  hand,  shook  it  quickly,  dropped 
it,  and  made  for  the  open  door,  putting  on  his  cap 
as  he  went. 

"  Don't  lose  the  address,"  she  called  after  him. 

With  one  hand  upon  the  outer  door  knob  Delaney 
paused  and  turned  in  the  aperture. 

"  I've  got  it  safe,"  he  assured  her,  but  finding  him 
self  thus  arrested  he  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty 
in  going  on  again. 

"Well,  then "  he  said  in  the  tentative  tone  of 

one  about  to  depart;  but  he  still  stood  there. 

"Au  revoir,"  called  Rita,  with  a  characteristically 
gay  wave. 

That  seemed  to  supply  the  impetus  the  young  man 
sought;  and  with  a  quick  smile  and  a  jerky  little  nod 
he  drew  the  door  shut  after  him.  No  sooner  had  it 
closed  than  there  came  from  the  hall  without  a  dull 
crash  as  of  falling  dishes.  Then  voices.  The  two 
looked  at  each  other. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Rita  slowly— "I'm  afraid  he 
must  have  run  into  the  waiter — with  our  luncheon." 

"Of  course,"  said  Parrish  with  cynical  indiffer 
ence,  "that's  precisely  what  he  would  do."  And 
he  took  a  few  steps  away  from  the  door  as  if  to  in 
dicate  his  disassociation  from  any  disaster  in  which 
Mr.  Delaney  might  have  become  involved. 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  said  Rita,  and  stepped  rapidly 
toward  the  door. 

"  Hold  on ! "  he  cried,  turning  sharply.     "  Don't ! " 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,63 

She  stopped. 

"Why  not?" 

"He'll  come  back  again!" 

"No,  he  won't;  and,  anyway,  if  it's  his  fault  he 
can't  afford  to  pay  for  it." 

Parrish  gave  in. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  moving  toward  the  door. 
"You  stay  here.  I'll  go  out  and  see  to  it." 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  he  came  back. 

"Yes,  it  was  our  lunch,"  he  said  in  a  fatigued  tone. 
"  I  fixed  the  waiter.  He's  gone  down  to  duplicate  the 
order,  and  now  that  Delaney's  gone  we  may  get  it." 

Rita  laughed. 

"Don't  you  like  him?"  she  asked  mischievously. 

"The  young  whelp!"  he  burst  out.  "Why,  the 
way  he  talked  to  you — talked  down  to  you!  A  piano 
tuner!  It  was  the  worst  piece  of  impudence  I  ever 
heard  in  my  life!"  He  paced  the  floor.  "  I  couldn't 
believe  my  ears!  I  wanted  to  kick  him!  One  thing 
after  another!  I  kept  saying  to  myself,  'This  is 
a  little  too  much!  Now  she's  going  to  nail  him!' 
But  you  didn't.  You  just  took  it.  Offering  to  help 
him,  too,  after  what  he'd  said!"  He  stopped  and 
stood  staring  at  her.  "Think  of  it!"  he  went  on. 
"You  tell  him  you'll  sing  some  rotten  little  song  of 
his — some  song  he  had  to  write  because  'Bonnie 
Doon'  isn't  good  enough  for  him — the  same  as  telling 
him  you'll  make  him— and  what  does  he  say?  Does 
he  say  thank  you?  No!  He  tells  you  you  can't 
sing!" 


1 64  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Oh,  hardly  that!" 

"Practically  that.  Telling  you  what  keys  you 
can't  sing  in!  Telling  you  you've  got  a  lot  of  bad 
notes  in  your  upper  register!  Yes,  and  thumping 
them !  Thumping  them !  Rita,  I  can't  see  why  you 
stood  for  it.  I  can't  get  it  through  my  head." 

She  smiled. 

"He  was  a  dog  to  do  it,"  she  told  him,  "but  it's 
true." 

"  No,  it  isn't !  And  if  it  were,  that  would  only  make 
it  worse.  Tell  me— just  to  satisfy  my  curiosity — how 
did  you  ever  come  to  let  him  get  away  with  it?" 

She  looked  thoughtful. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "in  the  first  place  he's  gifted; 
he  really  knows.  And  being  gifted,  he's  queer;  one 
makes  allowances.  And  there's  something  horribly 
pathetic  about  him,  so  poor  and  so  talented  and— 

"So  rude,"  he  put  in. 

"Yes,  but  he's  young.  He  must  be  very  young. 
How  old  do  you  suppose  he  is?" 

"Old  enough  to  know  better,"  he  answered  dourly. 
And  he  added,  "Those  pretty  men  always  look 
younger  than  they  really  are." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  reflectively,  "he  is  good-look- 

ing." 

"Too  good-looking!"  Parrish  mumbled  as  the 
waiter  knocked  at  the  door.  "He  ought  to  have 
been  a  girl." 

Presently,  at  luncheon,  he  forgot  about  Delaney. 
Never,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  Rita  been  quite  so  fasci-- 


RITA  COVENTRY  165 

nating.  She  seasoned  the  repast  with  amusing  gossip 
—the  story  of  a  dog-fight  at  a  rehearsal,  a  little  fight 
between  two  little  dogs  which  rapidly  became  a  big 
fight  between  two  big  prima  donnas;  stories  of  in 
trigue  in  the  struggle  for  fame;  droll  tales  of  tempera 
ment,  love,  and  jealousy,  of  pranks  played  upon  one 
another  by  the  singers,  and  of  misadventures  during 
performances,  making,  for  Parrish,  successive  pic 
tures  of  a  world  new  and  strange. 

"I've  never  been  behind  the  scenes  at  the  opera," 
he  said. 

"You'd  like  to?     Come  any  time  I'm  singing." 

"What  do  you  sing  Wednesday  night?"  he  asked. 

"'Butterfly,'  but — you'd  have  to  come  during  the 
first  part  of  the  evening.  I  have  a  business  engage 
ment  later.  Wouldn't  you  rather  come  Monday- 
it's  'Manon' — and  stay  all  evening?" 

He  put  his  hand  over  hers  upon  the  table. 

"What  a  question,  when  Monday  is  five  days 
further  off  than  Wednesday!  Besides,  I  love  you  in 
'Butterfly.'  You  look  just  like  a  Toyokuni.  I've 
always  wished  I  could  see  you  in  those  costumes, 
close  to." 

"  All  right,"  she  said.  "  Come  a  little  before  eight. 
I'll  leave  word  with  the  doorman." 

Then  she  rose,  passed  behind  him,  and  laid  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  'm 
awfully  disappointed  about  something,  and  like  a 
coward  I've  been  putting  off  telling  you.  I  must 
go  back  this  afternoon." 


1 66  RITA  COVENTRY 

He  turned  quickly  in  his  chair  and  looked  up  at 
her,  echoing  stupidly: 

"This  afternoon?" 

"Yes.  They  long-distanced  me  while  you  were 
out.  Isn't  it  disgusting?  It's  that  idiot  Bonata. 
You  remember,  I  told  you  about  her.  She's  such  a 
slow  study.  It's  outrageous  that  they  keep  her." 

"  But  why  do  you  have  to  go  back?"  he  demanded, 
rising. 

"It's  the  new  opera — goes  on  a  week  from  Mon 
day.  I  have  several  scenes  with  her,  and  they've 
called  a  rehearsal  for  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morn 
ing." 

"Oh,  Rita!" 

"  I  tried  to  get  them  to  postpone  it,"  she  went  on, 
"but  they  couldn't.  I  saw  that  myself  when  they 
explained."  She  looked  disconsolate.  "But  there's 
no  need  for  you  to  come  if— 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous ! "  he  cried.  "  You  know  per 
fectly  well  I  couldn't  stand  it  here!" 

"Then,"  she  answered,  sighing,  "there's  nothing 
to  do  but  pack  and  order  the  car." 

Turning  away  from  her  he  walked  with  a  slow  step 
to  the  French  windows  and  looked  out  upon  the 
balcony  and  the  sea  as  if  to  bid  them  farewell.  Then 
he  faced  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "they  can't  take  that  away  from 
us,  anyhow!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  Jersey  pines  were  looming  black  in  the 
February   twilight   as   the   limousine  slipped 
swiftly  into  Lakewood,  and  it  was  dark  when, 
after  a  light  repast,  Parrish  and  Rita  resumed  their 
way  toward  New  York.     Reaching  the  city  before  ten, 
they  drove  to  her  house,  where,  because  of  her  early 
rehearsal  next  morning,  they  parted  on  the  doorstep. 

"Wednesday  night,  then,  at  the  opera  house,"  she 
said  in  farewell  as  Pierre  opened  the  outer  door. 

Wednesday  night — and  this  only  Monday! 

At  Parrish's  own  door  I  to  greeted  him  with  his 
polite  Japanese  smile. 

"Teregram  for  you,  sir,"  he  said  as  he  carried  in  the 
baggage;  for  I  to  had  the  usual  Oriental  difficulty 
with  the  sounds  of  "1"  and  "r." 

Parrish  knew  what  the  telegram  would  be.  Going 
to  the  library  he  took  the  yellow  envelope  from  the 
desk,  opened  it,  and  read.  Yes,  it  was  from  Alice — 
a  tautological  announcement  that  she  had  arrived 
"safely"  in  Cleveland.  Also  there  lay  upon  the 
desk  a  special-delivery  letter  addressed  in  her  fami 
liar  handwriting — legible,  slightly  unformed,  above 
all,  honest. 

As  the  telegram  closed  with  the  words  "much 

167 


1 68  RITA  COVENTRY 

love,"  so  the  letter  opened  with  the  salutation  "  Dear 
est,"  followed  by  a  dash;  for  dashes  served  Alice  in 
place  of  periods,  colons,  semicolons,  and  commas. 
Hurriedly  he  read  the  letter: 

George  met  me  at  the  station  with  his  car  and  drove  me  out  to 
the  house — It  was  certainly  fine  to  see  them  all  again — though 
of  course  I  miss  you  terribly  dear — When  I  was  here  before  the 
grading  wasn't  all  finished  but  now  everything  looks  nice  and 
settled  inside  and  out — although  it  is  certainly  what  you  would 
call  "suburban"  looking — It's  a  California  bungalow  type 
house — stucco  and  brown  wood — with  a  second  story  that  you'd 
hardly  notice  from  outside — and  the  furniture  is  mostly  "mis 
sion" — I  can  see  you  turn  up  your  nose  at  that!  I  don't  think 
Margaret  likes  mission  furniture — but  George  the  old  dear 
likes  it  because  it's  "solid  looking" — and  all  those  two  ever 
think  of  is  having  everything  the  way  the  other  wants  it — You 
would  think  them  very  unsophisticated  and  they  are — the  way 
I  used  to  be! — but  I  know  you'd  like  them  because  they  are  so 
good  and  devoted — and  you'd  be  crazy  about  the  children — 
They  have  grown  so  much  since  I  last  saw  them  that  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes — and  they  made  such  a  fuss  over  "Auntie 
Alice"  that  it  made  her  cry — It  certainly  is  wonderful  to  have 
children  love  you  like  that  and  I  don't  say  it  because  they  are 
Margaret's  but  they  really  are  remarkable — 

I  think  I  cried  partly  because  they  are  such  little  darlings  and 
partly  because  their  little  arms  around  my  neck  somehow  made 
my  loneliness  for  you  horribly  acute — Does  that  sound  crazy 
dear?  Maybe  it  is  but  that's  how  I  felt — Oh  Dick  how  I  do  love 
you!  (How  Clara  would  scold  me  for  writing  you  that  and  tell 
ing  it  to  you  all  the  time!)  She  thinks  men  are  so  conceited  and 
selfish  because  she  has  never  known  the  right  kind  of  man  and 
that  has  made  her  cynical — She  says  a  woman  is  a  fool  to  let  a 
man  know  she  cares  because  a  man  tires  of  a  woman  when  he  is 
so  sure  of  her — I  don't  believe  you  can  lay  down  any  such  rule 
to  cover  all  cases — do  you  ?  Anyway  I  want  you  to  be  sure  of  me ! 
And  it's  lucky  for  me  I  do! — because  if  I  didn't  want  you  to  be 
you  would  be  just  the  same — I  couldn't  help  letting  you  see — 


RITA  COVENTRY  169 

Oh  dearest  I'm  so  worried  over  Margaret!  She's  so  miserable 
—  worse  than  I  thought  —  The  doctor  says  she  ought  to  have  gone 
to  the  Adirondacks  two  or  three  weeks  ago  because  though  it's 
just  pleurisy  she  won't  get  over  it  in  this  lake  climate  at  this 
time  of  year  and  it  might  get  worse  —  She  has  been  fighting  going 
because  she  can't  bear  to  leave  George  and  the  children  but  she 
is  getting  frightened  about  herself  now  and  since  I  am  here  she 
certainly  has  no  excuse—  But  Dick  it  means  a  month  or  six 
weeks  out  here  for  me  and  I  only  reproach  myself  for  not  having 
realized  and  come  sooner  —  So  I  can't  go  back  with  you  when 
you  come  through  —  but  I  would  give  anything  on  earth  to  see 
you  —  Couldn't  you  stop  over  a  train  and  come  up?  But  if  not 
I  could  come  down  and  see  you  for  a  minute  at  the  train  —  That 
would  help  wouldn't  it  dear?  So  if  you  go  west  be  sure  to  tele 
graph  me  in  plenty  of  time  — 

Well  dear  I'm  afraid  this  epistle  isn't  any  too  cheerful  sound 
ing  —  but  I  do  miss  you  so  and  this  is  the  nearest  I  can  get  to 
talking  to  you  — 

Take  care  of  yourself  for  my  sake  dear  and  don't  get  too  tired  — 
You  work  so  hard  you  know  —  and  there  are  so  many  germs 
around  one  can't  be  too  careful  — 

1  will  write  you  every  day  and  you  must  write  me  as  often  as 
you  can  even  if  it  is  only  a  line  just  to  let  me  know  you  are  well  — 
And  perhaps  if  we  get  so  lonesome  for  each  other  we  can't  stand 
it  any  longer  we  can  talk  on  the  long-distance  the  way  we  did 
when  I  was  here  before  — 

Oh  Dick  you  know  how  I  adore  you  don't  you? 

Your  loving 

ALICE. 

P  S— 

You  haven't  forgotten  what  the  farmer  wrote  you  about  the 
fences  at  Blenkinswood  have  you? 


Parrish  sighed  heavily,  tore  the  letter  into  small 
pieces  and  dropped  them  into  the  wastebasket.  Out 
of  his  welter  of  conflicting  emotions  and  impulses 


1 7o  RITA  COVENTRY 

emerged  a  thought  of  telephoning  to  her,  but  quickly 
he  let  it  slip  back  into  the  welter.  He  would  write. 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  the  rack,  dipped  his 
pen,  and  paused.  Then  he  wrote  "  Dear,"  and  after 
pausing  again,  added  "est."  But  when  he  blotted 
the  word  the  final  syllable,  not  having  dried  so  long, 
was  perceptibly  lighter  than  the  first. 

"Oh,  damn  it!"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

He  tore  up  the  sheet  and  let  the  fragments  fall  to 
the  basket,  where  Alice's  letter  already  lay;  then 
rising  he  went  to  his  room,  and  put  on  his  bath 
robe  and  slippers,  whereafter  he  returned  to  the 
desk  and  sat  for  a  moment,  but  only  to  get  up  again. 
This  time  he  proceeded  to  the  butler's  pantry,  where, 
after  picking  savagely  at  the  ice,  he  secured  a  suit 
able  piece  which  he  washed  and  deposited  in  a  tall 
thin  glass.  Thence  he  went  to  the  sideboard  and, 
after  unlocking  it,  withdrew  a  bottle  containing  an 
amber  fluid.  Hastily  he  poured  a  generous  portion 
into  his  glass,  and  adding  water,  drank. 

But  after  that  he  went  back  to  his  desk,  took  up 
the  telephone,  and  asked  for  the  telegraph  office. 

His  night  letter  to  Alice  was  long,  sympathetic,  and 
uninforming.  "Am  writing,"  he  ended. 

However,  he  did  not  write  that  night,  and  next 
morning  he  was  pressed  for  time;  he  had  been  absent 
from  the  office  for  a  day;  much  business  would  be 
awaiting  him.  Moreover,  there  were  errands  to  be 
done  on  the  way  down.  He  stopped  at  his  jeweller's, 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  was  there  for  the  better  part 


RITA  COVENTRY  171 

of  an  hour,  closeted  with  the  head  of  the  firm. 
Thence  he  went  to  his  florist's,  where  he  ordered 
flowers  to  be  "telegraphed"  to  Cleveland. 

That  night  at  the  club  he  was  requisitioned  to 
make  a  fourth  at  bridge,  so  he  put  into  his  pocket 
the  letter  he  had  begun,  intending  to  finish  it  when 
he  got  home.  But  it  was  late  when  he  got  home; 
and  on  Wednesday  morning  there  was  the  office  call 
ing  him  again,  A  meeting  kept  him  downtown 
later  than  usual,  and  when,  after  taking  his  walk  up 
the  Avenue,  he  reached  the  apartment,  it  was  practi 
cally  time  to  dress.  Ordinarily,  he  would  have  had 
more  time,  but  to-night  he  must  dine  early  in  order 
to  be  at  the  stage  door  promptly  at  a  quarter  before 
eight. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HE  WAS  even  a  little  ahead  of  time,  but  the 
doorman  was  expecting  him  and  let  him 
through,  sending  a  young  man  to  pilot  him. 
Parrish  had  been  behind  scenes  before,  but  never 
in  such  a  place  as  this.  Here,  as  in  an  ordinary  the 
atre,  he  was  aware  of  worn  gray  boards  underfoot, 
of  brick  walls,  crude  and  solid,  and  of  the  pervasive 
musty  smell  common  to  all  playhouse  stages.  He 
was  dimly  conscious,  as  he  moved  along,  of  innum 
erable  ropes  and  cables  running  aloft,  of  cyclopean 
lighting  devices  to  be  avoided,  of  furniture  and  prop 
erties  piled  in  corners,  and  of  the  brutal  bareness  of 
unpainted  canvas.  Yet  this  stage,  because  of  its 
vast  size,  was  unlike  any  other.  It  was  cosmic.  In 
its  dim  vistas  workmen  were  but  gnomes;  beyond  the 
towering  bulk  of  the  scene  set  for  the  first  act  lay 
an  undiscovered  country;  the  dark,  deep  spaces  of 
the  fly  gallery,  above,  had  the  remoteness  of  a  mid 
night  sky.  Following  the  young  man,  Parrish  began 
to  feel  that  life  itself,  becoming  touched  with  mad 
ness,  had  turned  its  clothing  wrong  side  out  and  gone 
to  masquerading. 

Turning  a  corner  and  leading  the  way  up  sev 
eral  carpeted  steps,  the  pilot  knocked  upon  a  metal 

172 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,73 

door,  and  upon  receiving  an  answer  from  within,  de 
parted,  leaving  Parrish  standing  there. 

Almost  immediately  the  door  was  opened  nar 
rowly,  showing  a  maid  in  a  frilled  cap. 

"Monsieur  Parrish?" 

"Yes." 

She  opened  the  door  wider,  saying  "Entrez,  s'il 
vous  plait,  monsieur,"  and  as  she  relieved  him  of  hat, 
overcoat,  and  cane,  continued,  "Mademoiselle  vous 
demande  mille  pardons,  monsieur,  mais  elle'  n'est  pas 
encore  habillee.  Donnez-vous  la  peine  de  vous 
asseoir,  monsieur?" 

Selecting  the  most  comfortable  of  the  wicker  chairs 
Parrish  obediently  sat  down,  and  as  the  maid  de 
parted  to  the  next  room,  began  to  entertain  himself 
by  inspecting  his  surroundings.  Long  and  narrow, 
the  room  had  the  dimensions  of  a  rather  large  hall 
bedroom;  there  was  a  window  of  dull  bevelled  glass, 
white  and  blind  like  an  eye  with  a  cataract,  but  Par 
rish  had  a  feeling  that  the  apartment  hardly  knew 
the  light  of  day,  much  less  the  sunlight.  Without 
its  mirrors,  bright  electric  lights,  and  chintz,  it  would 
have  been  a  very  gloomy  place.  The  chintz,  which 
was  of  cream  colour  with  a  running  pattern  of  rose 
wreaths,  dominated  the  place.  It  covered  the  walls 
and  the  couch;  the  window  and  the  door  leading  to 
the  dressing  room  were  curtained  with  it;  it  had  been 
used  for  upholstering  the  chairs.  A  label-covered 
wardrobe  trunk  standing  in  one  corner,  a  small  table 
and  a  writing  desk  of  cream-coloured  enamel,  some 


174  RITA  COVENTRY 

mirrors,  photographs,  and  vases  of  flowers,  half-heart 
edly  attempted  to  dispute  the  sway  of  the  rose- 
wreath  pattern,  but  the  mirrors  reflected  it  and  the 
other  objects  were  but  spots  against  it.  Even  a 
great  sheaf  of  American  Beauty  roses,  standing  in  a 
vase  resembling  an  enormous  megaphone  of  brass, 
became  inconspicuous  against  those  serpentines  of 
printed  roses  on  the  walls. 

His  attention  was  attracted  by  some  caricatures 
of  operatic  figures,  and  he  rose  to  look  at  them. 
They  were  drawn  by  a  famous  tenor  whose  talent  for 
distorted  portraiture  was  often  mentioned  in  the 
newspapers,  and  among  them  was  a  wicked  sketch 
of  Rita,  in  Melisande's  trailing  tresses,  with  her  mouth 
wide  open.  He  was  looking  disapprovingly  at  this 
when  he  heard  the  clink  of  curtain  rings  behind 
him,  as  the  portiere  at  the  dressing-room  door  was 
thrust  back,  and  Rita's  voice  calling  to  him  to  come 
in. 

The  maid  stood  aside  in  the  doorway  as  he  entered, 
then  withdrew,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

Rita  was  seated  at  a  long  dressing  table  with 
triple  mirrors  strongly  lighted,  when,  pausing  in  the 
final  processes  of  making  up,  she  turned  her  head  to 
greet  him.  The  silken  kimono,  brocaded  obi,  and 
convoluted  wig  of  glistening  coal-black  hair,  were 
those  of  Madame  Butterfly,  but  richly  picturesque  as 
the  Japanese  costume  was,  his  glance  at  it  was  cur 
sory.  It  was  her  face  that  held  him.  He  stared  at 
it,  disconcerted.  For  though  there  was  a  trace  of 


RITA  COVENTRY  175 

Rita  in  the  eyes,  disguised  with  heavy  make-up— 
the  lashes  beaded  with  oily  black,  the  inner  corners 
dotted  with  red,  the  outer  corners  lined  obliquely  to 
give  an  Oriental  tilt — and  though  it  was  her  voice 
that  spoke  to  him  from  behind  that  mask  of  grease 
paint  and  powder,  he  could  not  feel  that  this  was 
she.  Like  the  lad  in  the  fairy  tale  whose  loved  one 
is  transformed  by  witchcraft  into  another  shape,  he 
shared  memories  with  the  extraordinary  being  before 
him,  yet  felt  that  she  was  a  stranger  to  him. 

With  an  instinctive  desire  to  overcome  this  sense 
of  unreality  he  went  back  to  the  subject  of  which 
they  had  last  spoken,  asking,  "How  did  the  re 
hearsal  go  yesterday?" 

She  was  leaning  toward  the  mirror,  giving  a  final 
touch  of  colour  to  her  lower  lip. 

"Lasted  all  day,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  her 
own  reflection. 

Turning  her  head  from  side  to  side  she  inspected 
critically  the  fit  of  her  wig;  then  with  both  hands  she 
pressed  it  down  more  firmly. 

Meanwhile  Parrish,  anxious  to  break  through  this 
sense  of  remoteness,  and  seeking  her  eyes,  moved  be 
hind  her  and  looked  at  her  in  the  glass. 

"Did  you  get  very  tired?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  quickly. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that!"  she  cried.  "Don't  look  at 
me  in  the  glass  when  you're  talking  to  me.  It's  un 
lucky!" 

He  smiled. 


1 76  RITA  COVENTRY 

"  I  didn't  know  that  you  were  superstitious." 

"  I  suppose  we  all  are.  Things  here  depend  so 
much  on  luck.  Don't  you  remember — we  were 
speaking  of  that  the  other  day?  For  instance  "- 
her  laugh  was  a  little  bit  apologetic — "we  are  super 
stitious  about  whistling  in  the  dressing  room.  It 
brings  bad  luck  to  whoever  is  nearest  the  door.  And 
I  wouldn't  dare  have  any  shoes  on  a  shelf  higher  than 
my  head.  That's  awful — poverty,  disaster,  death! 
And  yesterday  I  didn't  sing  the  last  few  measures 
of  the  opera.  I  never  do  until  the  first  night. 
And  there's  an  old  superstition  about— 

"  I  hope,"  he  put  in,  "that  there  is  none  about  re 
ceiving  a  gift  in  the  dressing  room,  because  I've 
brought  you  this." 

From  an  inside  pocket  he  drew  a  flat  leather- 
covered  box,  and  placed  it  before  her  on  the  table. 

She  seized  his  hand. 

"Oh,  you  dear!  How  dear  of  you!"  Then,  press 
ing  the  button  which  released  the  lid  of  the  box,  and 
discovering,  in  its  black  velvet  nest,  a  flexible  linked 
bracelet  of  platinum,  set  with  square  diamonds,  chic 
and  costly,  she  cried  out  again,  "Oh,  it's  lovely! 
You  extravagant  boy!" 

Pulling  back  one  kimono  sleeve  she  slipped  the 
bracelet  on  her  arm  and,  holding  it  away  from  her, 
gazed  at  it  admiringly.  Then,  rising  and  taking 
both  his  hands,  she  exclaimed,  "I'd  like  to  hug 
you!  But  I  mustn't.  This  liquid  powder  rubs  off." 

"I'll  take  a  chance!"  he  said. 


RITA  COVENTRY  i77 

"  But  I  won't,"  she  returned,  laughing.  "  I  have 
to  go  on  too  soon." 

As  if  in  confirmation  of  her  words  the  maid 
knocked  at  the  door,  announcing: 

"  Le  prelude  va  commencer,  mademoiselle." 

"  Bien,  Sophie."  She  beckoned  her,  and  taking  of? 
the  bracelet  placed  it  in  Sophie's  hand,  saying,  "Look 
at  the  beautiful  thing  monsieur  has  given  me!" 
Then,  as  the  maid  admired,  she  added,  "Now  you 
take  good  care  of  it,  Sophie!"  And  to  Fairish,  "I 
hate  to  take  it  off,  but  it  might  be  noticed  from  the 
front — and  of  course  it  is  out  of  character." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

He  was  disappointed.  He  wanted  her  to  wear  it. 
With  it  on  she  seemed  more  to  belong  to  him. 

"Now  come,"  said  she,  "and  I'll  show  you  where 
to  stay  and  watch  the  act,"  and  she  led  the  way  out 
through  the  anteroom,  down  the  steps  and  to  the 
stage. 

The  scene,  showing  the  Japanese  house  with  its 
terrace  and  garden  on  a  hilltop  overlooking  the  town 
and  bay  of  Nagasaki,  was  fully  set,  and  the  footlights 
and  borders  were  aglare.  Two  singers,  costumed 
for  the  parts  of  Pinkerton  and  Goro,  were  standing 
at  one  side,  well  back,  prepared  to  be  "discovered" 
when  the  curtain  should  rise. 

This  obvious  readiness  made  Parrish  nervous  as 
he  walked  across  the  stage  at  Rita's  side.  "What  if 
the  curtain  should  suddenly  ascend!"  he  was  think 
ing  to  himself.  And  when,  just  as  he  was  thinking 


178  RITA  COVENTRY 

that,  the  first  violins  vigorously  attacked  the  be 
ginning  of  the  overture  he  was  startled  to  the  point 
of  panic.  To  be  caught  out  there  in  the  middle  of 
the  stage — a  nightmare!  He  looked  anxiously  at 
Rita,  but  she  reassured  him  with  a  smile. 

When  the  curtain  did  rise  they  were  safely  off  the 
scene,  seated  in  two  gilt  chairs  behind  the  concealing 
proscenium  arch  and  its  appendant  draperies.  Hith 
erto  the  music  had  been  muffled  by  the  curtain,  but 
now  there  came  a  burst  of  sound  from  the  entire  choir 
of  strings,  and  simultaneously  a  feeling  of  air  in  cir 
culation  between  stage  and  auditorium,  and  of  a 
great  dark  something  out  there  beyond  the  foot 
lights,  very  quiet  but  very  much  alive. 

From  their  vantage  point  they  watched  the  bus 
tling  Goro  exhibiting  the  little  house  to  the  American 
naval  officer;  the  scene  with  Suzuki,  the  servant;  the 
arrival  of  the  American  consul,  Sharpless.  Then 
came  Pinkerton's  aria,  whimsically  introducing  a 
snatch  of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  and  the  amus 
ing  passage  with  its  convivial  invitation— the  Eng 
lish  words  "milk  punch  or  whisky?"  leaping  out  so 
startlingly  from  the  mellifluous  Italian  text. 

Presently,  motioning  to  him  to  remain  seated, 
Rita  rose. 

"My  cue  soon,"  she  whispered,  and  left  him. 

Soon  after,  he  heard  the  little  hubbub  of  women's 
voices  that  precedes  the  entrance  of  Butterfly;  then 
softly,  in  Rita's  thrilling  soprano,  the  recitative: 
" Ancora  un  passo  or  via,"  with  music  mounting  like 


RITA  COVENTRY  179 

the  hillside  steps  she  was  supposed  to  have  climbed; 
and  following  immediately  on  this — still  from  a 
little  distance — her  happy  song  of  love. 

The  wistful  story  of  this  opera  and  the  passionate 
yearning  of  its  melodies  had  always  moved  Parrish, 
but  now  he  felt  a  new  emotion.  This  was  not 
Coventry  in  "Madame  Butterfly" — it  was  the  woman 
he  loved.  Breathlessly  he  awaited  the  first  vision 
of  her  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  his  heart  thumping 
thickly;  but  when,  after  repeating  the  plaintive,  "I 
have  come  at  the  call  of  love,"  she  appeared,  he 
could  see  her  but  dimly  through  tears  standing  in 
his  eyes.  Startled  and  chagrined  at  his  emotion, 
he  hastily  brushed  them  away  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

Thenceforward  he  sat  spellbound,  listening  for 
Rita's  voice,  watching  her  every  gesture.  How  per 
fectly  she  simulated  the  mannerisms  of  a  gentle 
little  Japanese!  How  expressive  her  hands!  And 
how  small  she  looked — or  was  it  only  that  the  tenor 
was  so  big  and  fat?  "Young  lieutenant" — with 
those  dimensions!  There  was  something  unmanly 
about  tenors,  anyway.  Come  to  think  of  it,  he  had 
never  known  any  man  with  a  high  voice  to  make 
good  in  business. 

The  wedding  guests  arrived  upon  the  scene,  the 
ceremony  was  performed  and  the  company  departed, 
leaving  Butterfly  and  Pinkerton  alone.  Their  wed 
ding  night.  The  footlights  had  been  growing  dim 
mer;  stars  began  to  show  through  the  back  drop. 


i8o  RITA  COVENTRY 

The  music!  Nobody  could  equal  Puccini  as  a  com 
poser  of  these  throbbing,  passionate  love  songs. 

"  Ti  serro  palpitante,"  sang  the  tenor,  and  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word,  seized  her  in  his  arms. 

That  was  the  beastly  thing  about  a  woman's  being 
on  the  stage:  she  must  submit  to  being  handled  by 
such  louts! 

But  in  spite  of  his  aversion  for  the  tenor  he  was 
again  deeply  moved  by  the  fiery  surge  of  the  big 
duet  with  which  the  act  ended,  as  Pinkerton  led 
Butterfly  to  the  nuptial  chamber. 

Slowly,  like  a  great  cloud  drifting  across  a  moun 
tain  top,  the  curtain  floated  down,  while,  from  the 
space  beyond,  swept  applause  which  made  Parrish 
think  of  the  roar  of  rain  on  a  tin  roof. 

As  the  magnificent  footman  drew  back  a  corner  of 
the  heavy  tableau  curtain  to  pass  the  singers  out  for 
the  first  encore,  Parrish  stood  up  and  peered  through 
the  aperture.  In  the  dim  auditorium  he  could  see 
the  people  in  the  boxes  nearest  the  proscenium  arch 
—the  men  a  background  for  the  women — proud 
women  with  white  shoulders  and  vivid  plumed  fans, 
who,  because  of  the  blinding  glare  of  the  footlights 
in  his  eyes,  looked  unreal  to  him,  like  paper  figures 
cut  from  fashion  magazines. 

Then,  as  the  singers  moved  out  before  the  curtain, 
the  applause  rolled  louder.  He  watched  them  taking 
hands,  smiling,  bowing  to  each  other  and  to  the  audi 
ence,  their  faces  sharply  lighted  from  beneath,  like 
the  faces  of  ballet  girls  in  Degas'  paintings. 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,81 

Finally,  after  many  encores,  Rita  alone,  with  the 
brilliance  beating  on  the  youthful  contours  of  her 
chin  and  throat;  then  suddenly,  through  the  air, 
flowers  falling,  seeming  to  come  from  nowhere,  and 
men's  voices  in  the  distance  calling  "Brava!" 

Her  arms  were  full  of  flowers  when  she  came  to 
him. 

"I  must  hurry!"  she  said.  "I  have  to  be  on  at 
the  beginning  of  the  next  act,  you  know.  I  don't 
believe  it's  worth  your  staying  while  I  change." 

"Your  engagement" — he  began  interrogatively,  as 
they  moved  toward  her  dressing  room — "that 
business  you  spoke  of— it  hasn't  by  any  chance 
been— 

"No,  I'm  sorry,"  she  broke  in. 

"I'll  run  along,  then,"  he  said,  still  with  a  faint 
tentativeness. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to,"  she  agreed  as  they 
reached  the  anteroom.  She  was  speaking  rapidly, 
like  a  busy  executive  to  whom  time  is  everything. 
"Why  don't  you  go  out  front  and  hear  the  rest  from 
there?  Here" — she  snatched  an  envelope  from 
the  desk,  scribbled  a  few  words  on  it  in  pencil,  and 
thrust  it  into  his  hand.  "Take  that  to  the  box 
office.  Ask  for  Mr.  Spiegel.  He'll  give  you  a  seat 
if  there's  one  to  be  had.  Now  I  really  must- 
She  turned  toward  the  door  of  the  inner  room. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "Shall  I  come  back  for  you 
afterwards?" 

"Oh,  no.     I'll  be  very  late."     The  words  came 


1 82  RITA  COVENTRY 

over  her  shoulder.  But  from  the  doorway  she 
looked  back,  exclaiming,  "Oh — I  almost  forgot! 
Come  to  dinner  Sunday  night." 

With  that  she  disappeared. 

"Thanks,  I  will,"  he  said  to  the  chintz  curtain, 
and  taking  up  hat,  coat,  and  stick,  left  the  room. 

Of  course  she  was  in  an  awful  hurry — no  doubt 
about  that.  She  just  didn't  have  time  to  think. 
And  she  was  pleased  with  the  bracelet — he  could  see 
that  when  she  thanked  him.  No  particular  reason 
why  she  should  speak  of  it  again. 

She  couldn't  mean  that  he  wasn't  to  see  her  until 
Sunday.  Impossible!  She  just  wanted  to  be  sure 
he  wouldn't  make  another  engagement  for  Sunday 
night.  Yes,  that  must  be  it. 

He  passed  through  the  stage  door  and  walked  up 
the  side  street  toward  the  front  of  the  building  to 
find  the  lobby  full  of  men  in  evening  dress,  smoking. 
And  when  he  pushed  the  envelope  through  the  box- 
office  window,  "There's  not  a  single  orchestra  chair 
left,"  said  Mr.  Spiegel.  "Will  you  take  the  manage 
ment's  box?" 

Parrish  thanked  him  and  took  the  coupons. 

The  box,  which  an  usher  unlocked  for  him,  was 
near  the  centre  of  the  horseshoe.  A  brass  plate  on 
the  door  bore  the  name  of  the  impresario,  and  a  like 
plate  on  the  next  door  informed  Parrish  that  the  ad 
joining  box  was  that  of  Hermann  Krauss.  If  he  were 
to  go  in  now  and  sit  down  at  the  front,  and  Krauss 
should  be  in  his  own  box,  he  would  have  to  talk  with 


RITA  COVENTRY  183 

him;  and  he  was  not  in  humour  to  talk.  He  took  a 
chair  at  the  rear,  where  the  high  partition  sheltered 
him  from  view. 

Just  what  was  her  business  about,  he  wondered— 
not  that  it  was  any  particular  affair  of  his,  but  what 
sort  of  business  arrangements  did  opera  singers 
make?  Of  course  they  had  contracts.  No  doubt 
Rita's  lawyer  looked  them  over  for  her.  He  hoped 
he  was  a  good  lawyer.  But  did  they  sign  contracts 
at  night — in  dressing  rooms?  That  didn't  seem 
very  businesslike.  You'd  think  they'd  go  to  the 
manager's  office — or  to  the  lawyer's  office — or  that 
the  lawyer  would  come  to  the  singer's  house.  Artis 
tic  people  were  notoriously  careless  about  business. 
And  she  made  so  much  money — probably  with  her  it 
was  easy  come,  easy  go.  What  she  needed  was  the 
advice  of  a  good  sound  business  man.  She  might  do 
a  lot  worse  than  to  consult  him  about  some  of  these 
things. 

Now  the  house  was  darkened  and  the  cur 
tain  rose.  The  affecting  melodies,  and  his  own 
emotions  as  he  saw  Rita— a  tiny  figure  in  that 
great  gold-framed  picture — and  heard  her  voice 
carrying  through  those  vast  spaces,  combined  to 
produce  in  him  a  state  of  mournful  intoxication  in 
which  he  remained  until,  as  the  opera  was  about  to 
end,  people  in  the  parterre  boxes  began  to  steal 
away  to  get  to  their  limousines  before  the  rush  of 
the  general  exodus  should  begin.  He  decided  to  go, 
too.  If  he  waited  to  the  very  end  and  went  out 


1 84  RITA  COVENTRY 

with  the  crowd  he  was  almost  certain  to  meet  people 
he  knew. 

Having  told  his  chauffeur  to  keep  out  of  the  jam 
by  parking  in  a  side  street,  over  toward  Sixth  Avenue, 
he  went  out  through  the  main  entrance,  and  headed 
up  Broadway,  intending  to  cross  at  the  next  corner, 
but  the  street  was  crowded  and  he  had  to  wait  on 
the  curb.  He  glanced  back  toward  the  stage  door. 

He  supposed  that  she  would  take  off  her  make-up 
before  seeing  to  that  business. 

A  street  car  stopped ;  a  man  jumped  off,  came  dodg 
ing  through  the  traffic,  and  brushed  by  him  as  he 
hurried  down  the  street.  Struck  by  something  fa 
miliar  in  the  man's  appearance  Parrish  turned  and 
looked  after  him.  He  was  walking  rapidly;  the 
collar  of  his  overcoat  was  turned  up,  and  he  wore  a 
checked  cloth  cap.  Yes,  something  familiar.  Suddenly 
he  got  it.  If  it  wasn't  that  piano  tuner  from  Atlan 
tic  City  it  was  someone  mighty  like  him! 

He  stood  looking  after  him,  but  as  he  looked  the 
young  man  was  lost  to  view  in  the  crowd  that  was 
beginning  to  emerge  from  the  carriage  entrance  near 
the  stage  door. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EVIDENTLY  Rita  had  not  meant  to  put  him 
off  until  Sunday,  for  next  morning  she 
called  him  up  at  his  office.  She  wanted  to 
thank  him  again  for  the  bracelet,  she  said;  she  hadn't 
had  a  chance  to  thank  him  properly  last  night,  she 
was  so  rushed.  She  had  the  bracelet  on  now.  She 
loved  it.  She  was  going  to  wear  it  this  evening  to 
dinner.  It  would  be  perfect  with  a  black  velvet 
evening  gown  she  had. 

So  she  was  going  out  to  dinner! 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to-morrow  night?"  he 
asked. 

"Some  people  are  coming  up  to  talk  about  a  tour 
to  the  Pacific  Coast.  But  I  tell  you— I'm  going  to 
the  dressmaker's  in  the  afternoon.  Wouldn't  it 
amuse  you  to  come  around  there?  And  we  could  go 
out  to  tea  after." 

That  day  at  lunch  Parrish  told  his  partner,  Stuart 
Bement,  that  the  period  of  depression  which  had 
so  long  been  afflicting  the  country  was,  in  his  opinion, 
about  over.  This  was  a  good  market  to  buy  in.  By 
June  conditions  would  be  normal. 

Yes,  he  was  feeling  optimistic.  He  carried  his 
optimism  up  town  with  him  that  evening,  down  in 

185 


1 86  RITA  COVENTRY 

the  morning,  and  up  again  when  in  the  late  afternoon 
he  went  to  meet  Rita. 

The  name  of  her  dressmaker  had  long  been  fami 
liar  to  him;  it  was  mentioned  with  respect  by  the 
best-dressed  women  he  knew,  and  he  himself  had 
often  found  his  eyes  drawn  to  the  double  tier  of  win 
dows,  wide  and  sumptuous,  in  which  its  latest  cos 
tumes  were  exhibited  to  the  passing  Avenue;  but  he 
had  never  entered  it  before;  and  now,  as  he  did  so, 
he  found  himself  a  little  ill  at  ease.  Vaguely  he  was 
aware  of  counters,  showcases,  and  wardrobes  of  pol 
ished  wood  and  shining  plate  glass,  holding  all  man 
ner  of  feminine  equipment;  and  although  it  was  so 
obviously  put  there  to  be  looked  at,  he  had  an  in 
stinct  not  to  look.  To  have  looked  would  have  seemed 
an  impropriety.  Yet  why?  These  things,  which 
suggested  to  the  corner  of  his  eyes  that  they  were 
dainty,  sheer,  and  ribbony,  belonged  to  an  incorpor 
ated  company.  Why  did  woman's  dress  seem  so 
much  more  personal  than  man's — not  only  her  under 
dress,  not  only  a  dress  belonging  to  some  specific 
woman,  but  even  a  frock  in  a  shop  window? 

There  approached  him  a  being  shapely  in  an 
almost  startlingly  plain  black  dress.  With  her  honey- 
coloured  hair  she  had  the  air  of  mounting  toward 
him  like  a  sunlit  breaker  gracefully  rising  to  a 
crest.  Then,  her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  she  raised 
her  lined  eyebrows  in  polite  interrogation. 

He  answered  with,  "I'm  looking  for  Miss  Cov 
entry." 


RITA  COVENTRY  187 

"Oh,  yes."  Immediately  she  was  smiling  and 
gracious.  She  undulated  to  the  elevators,  pressed 
the  button  for  him  and,  when  the  boy  opened  the 
door,  enunciated  with  careful  elegance,  "Let  this 
gentleman  off  at  the  fawth  flaw,  please." 

The  fourth  floor  differed  from  the  first  in  that  the 
latter  was  a  place  of  finished  things;  the  former  a 
place  of  things  not  quite  finished.  Except  for  chairs 
the  room  was  unfurnished;  there  were  long  threads 
on  the  gray-green  carpet,  and  opposite  the  elevators 
a  battery  of  fitting-rooms,  gray  panelled,  with  lights 
shining  from  within  through  bevelled  glass. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  elevator  two  black-clad 
women  stepped  toward  him. 

"Miss  Coventry?"  he  asked. 

Ah,  yes!  Like  destroyers  picking  up  a  merchant 
man  they  swerved  and  convoyed  him. 

"The  gentleman's  here,  Miss  Coventry,"  called 
one,  rapping  at  a  fitting-room  door. 

"Just  a  minute,"  came  Rita's  voice;  whereat  the 
convoy,  having  brought  him  to  his  anchorage,  sailed 
away. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  a  middle-aged 
woman  wearing  steel-rimmed  spectacles. 

Rita  was  facing  him,  posed  like  a  manikin,  with 
arms  slightly  extended.  From  her  shoulders  hung  a 
trailing  scarf  of  silvery  fabric,  very  thin,  which,  at 
tached  to  bracelets  on  either  wrist,  made  a  back 
ground  resembling  a  pair  of  soft,  half-spread  wings. 
The  gown  itself  was  of  brocade,  sapphire  blue  and 


1 88  RITA  COVENTRY 

silver,  cut  to  a  deep  V  in  front  and  held  in  place  by 
the  slightest  of  shoulder-straps. 

"Beautiful!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  her  white 
arms. 

The  fitter,  moving  behind  her,  gave  a  final  touch 
to  the  scarf.  Simultaneously  a  saleswoman  entered. 

"Here's  that  little  frock,  dearie,"  she  said,  exhibit 
ing  a  handful  of  shell-pink  chiffon  over  lace.  "It's 
just  come  in.  You're  the  very  first  to  see  it.  It's 
lucky  you're  here!  Mr.  S.  says  right  away  'Now 
there's  a  creation  for  Miss  Coventry.  Put  it  aside 
for  her.'  Aren't  those  little  rosebuds  sweet,  though? 
I've  never  sold  you  a  frock  like  t'his,  dearie,  and  I  cer 
tainly  do  want  you  to  have  it.  It's  so  sympathetic." 

"This  is  Miss  McCafferty,"  said  Rita,  introducing 
him. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  young 
woman. 

"She's  a  burglar,"  Rita  went  on,  "but  she  does 
know  how  to  dress  me." 

Miss  McCafferty  rolled  her  bright-blue  Irish  eyes 
in  humorous  protest. 

"Why,  dearie!  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
Now,  just  to  show  you,  I'm  going  to  let  you  have 
this  little  dress  at  a  real  sacrifice." 

"It's  too  young  for  me,"  said  Rita,  after  looking 
at  it  appraisingly. 

Miss  McCafferty  turned  to  Parrish  with  mock 
hopelessness. 

"C'n  you  beat  it?"  she  demanded.     "With  her 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,89 

looks!"  And  to  Rita:  "Dearie,  you  know  perfickly 
well  you  can  wear  anything!" 

"  I  haven't  time  to  try  it  on  to-day,"  said  Rita. 

But  Miss  McCafferty  was  prepared  to  work  fast. 

"I'll  have  a  model  slip  it  on  for  you,"  said  she, 
and  thrusting  her  head  out  of  the  door  she  shrilled 
"Claire!"  and  passed  the  gown  out  to  unseen  hands. 
Then  as  Rita  was  about  to  change,  Parrish  followed 
the  fitter  from  the  room  and  waited  outside  the  door. 

He  had  waited  but  a  moment  when  there  appeared 
a  youthful  model,  in  the  shell-pink  gown,  looking 
like  a  baby  cloud  at  sunset.  She  entered  the  fitting- 
room — where  from  over  the  partition  he  could  hear 
their  voices — and  did  not  emerge  until  Rita  came 
out  dressed  for  the  street. 

"  You  make  no  mistake  in  taking  that  little  frock," 
assured  Miss  McCafferty  as  they  stood  by  the  ele 
vator.  "  It'll  make  you  look  like  an  anngenoo.  It's 
so  sympathetic!  Well,  good-bye,  dearie.  Come  in 
soon  again."  And  with  a  little  bow  to  Parrish: 
"Glad  to've  met  you,  I'm  sure." 

For  tea  they  went  to  a  neighbouring  hotel,  where 
there  was  a  dark  wainscoted  dining  room  with  tables 
not  too  close  together,  each  with  a  softly  glowing 
lamp,  red  shaded,  somehow  suggestive  of  confidences. 
Most  of  the  tables  were  occupied  by  couples  intent 
upon  their  own  low-voiced  conversation. 

"This  place  always  amuses  me,"  said  Rita  as  they 
sat.  "It's  known  far  and  wide  as  a  place  where 
people  go  when  they  don't  want  to  be  seen.  So 


190  RITA  COVENTRY 

they  all  come  here  and  see  each  other,  and  pretend 
they  don't." 

Over  the  tea  he  found  an  opportunity  to  speak  of 
something  that  was  on  his  mind. 

"  By  the  way,  I  thought  I  caught  sight  of  that 
young  piano  tuner  the  other  night? "  The  statement 
was  a  question. 

"Yes;  he  came  around  to  see  me." 

"At  the  opera,  the  night  I  was  there?" 

"For  a  minute,  yes." 

"Are  you  going  to  sing  his  songs?" 

She  nodded.     "  I  told  him  I  would,  you  know." 

"Well,"  he  declared  emphatically,  "all  I've  got  to 
say  is — that  young  man  ought  to  be  mighty  grateful 
to  you." 

"He  ought  to  be,"  she  agreed,  "but  he  doesn't 
show  any  signs  of  it  yet.  I've  been  wondering  about 
it.  Anyway,  we  are  working  out  some  plans  to  push 
his  songs." 

"  In  spite  of  his  ingratitude,  eh?" 

"But  he's  a  genius." 

"Huh!"  said  Parrish.  "Genius  is  an  overworked 
word.  Nowadays  any  one  who  manufactures  a  dinky 
little  automobile,  or  paints  a  picture  that  looks  as  if 
a  defective  child  had  done  it,  or  raises  the  biggest 
squash  in  the  county,  gets  himself  called  a  genius." 

Since  seeing  Delaney  so  near  the  opera  house  he 
had  given  the  case  of  that  young  man  some  thought, 
and  he  was  prepared  now  to  state  his  conclusions; 
but  Rita  dismissed  the  topic,  saying  lightly,  "Per- 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,9i 

haps  you're  right;  he  may  not  be  a  genius.  But  I 
assure  you  he  is  a  new  type  to  me,  and  odd  types 
have  always  interested  me." 

"Certainly  you've  seen  enough  of  them,"  he  said, 
diverted.  "Lord,  what  a  lot  of  people  you  know! 
And  they  seem  to  know  you  so  well,  too— or  think 
they  do.  I  think  /  do.  When  I'm  with  you  I  think 
so,  but  away  from  you  I  sometimes  get  the  feeling 
that  I  don't  know  you  so  very  well,  after  all — that 
I've  lost  you  to  whatever  people  you  happen  to  be 
with  at  the  time.  And  who  are  they  all?  I  try  to 
imagine  where  you  are,  but  most  of  the  time  it's  all 
vague.  I  don't  know  enough  of  your  life  to  make  a 
mental  picture  of  it.  Why  don't  I?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  You  don't  seem  to  me  to  be  a  se 
cretive  person." 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I'm  naturally  frank,  I 
think."  Then,  smiling  faintly:  "But  supposing  I 
were  secretive — would  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  so — 
or  be  secretive  about  it?" 

He  laughed,  but  this  time  held  firmly  to  his 
point. 

"I've  never  felt  this  way  before,"  he  continued. 
"I  can't  figure  it  out.  It  makes  me  restless.  I  want 
you  to  know  all  about  me,  and  I  should  think  you'd 
want  me  to  know  all  about  you.  Haven't  you  felt 
that  way  about  people  you've  cared  for?  There  was 
a  girl  I  cared  for  a  great  deal  and  I  could  come  pretty 
near  reading  every  thought  in  her  head." 

"And  are  you  still  interested  in  her?"  Rita  asked. 


192  RITA  COVENTRY 

"She  was  awfully  sweet,"  said  he.  "I  shall  al 
ways  have  a  mighty  tender  feeling  for  her." 

Rita  looked  at  her  jewelled  wrist  watch. 

"It's  getting  late,"  she  said.     "I  must  be  going." 

As  they  were  waiting  for  the  check  he  pursued  his 
earlier  thought. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  my  apartment,"  he  told  her. 
"  I  have  some  old  things  that  will  interest  you.  Will 
you  come  down  and  dine  with  me  some  night  soon?" 

"I'd  love  to,  sometime  when  I'm  not  so  rushed." 

"Well,  anyway,"  he  said,  knowing  better  than  to 
press  the  matter,  "  I'll  see  you  Sunday  night." 


CHAPTER  XX 

HOWEVER,  he  was  not  to  see  her  on  Sunday 
night. 
Next  morning  he  had  a  protracted  talk  over 
the   long-distance  telephone  with  the  manager  of 
Parrish  &  Bement's  Chicago  office. 

"All  right,"  he  said  rather  irritably  at  the  close  of 
the  conversation,  "either  Mr.  Bement  or  I  will  be  out 
there  on  Monday.  Probably  Mr.  Bement  this  time." 

But  when  he  went  into  his  partner's  room  and  sug 
gested  to  him  that  it  was  his  turn  to  make  the 
Chicago  journey,  he  found  him  obdurate.  The  idea 
of  opening  a  Chicago  office  had  originated  with  Par 
rish,  and  that  office  had  always  been  regarded  in  the 
firm  as  Parrish's  particular  concern.  But  that  was 
not  all.  The  journey  that  Bement  was  momentarily 
expecting  to  embark  upon  was  not  to  Chicago,  but 
to  his  home  on  Long  Island,  Mrs.  Bement's  doctor 
having  informed  him  that  it  was  probably  only  a 
matter  of  hours  before  his  presence  would  be  ur 
gently  required. 

Parrish  endeavoured  to  express  a  proper  sympa 
thetic  interest  in  the  approaching  ordeal  of  parent 
hood.  Well,  there  was  nothing  else  for  it — he  would 
have  to  go  to  Chicago  himself.  It  was  unavoidable 

193 


194  RITA  COVENTRY 

He  must  call  up  Rita  and  let  her  know  he  couldn't 
come.  What  vile  luck!  Who  would  be  there  Sun 
day  night?  He  supposed  she'd  get  some  man  to 
take  his  place.  Who  would  it  be?  Who  would  be 
in  his  place,  at  her  right? 

He  always  felt  uneasy  about  ringing  Rita  up, 
since  telephoning  to  her  was  connected  in  his  mind 
with  disappointments;  but  this  morning,  rather  to  his 
surprise,  Pierre  admitted  that  she  was  at  home,  and  a 
moment  later  he  heard  her  voice. 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,"  she  said  when  he  had  broken 
the  news  to  her. 

"Yes,  and  I  may  have  to  be  out  there  a  week,"  he 
answered  gloomily. 

"Well — be  sure  to  let  me  hear  from  you  when  you 
get  back." 

"When  I  get  back?"  he  repeated.  "Isn't  there 
some  way  of  my  seeing  you  before  I  go?" 

"When  do  you  leave?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon — two  forty-five." 

"Wait  till  I  look  up  my  engagement  list."  She 
began  to  ruminate  aloud:  "Urn — let's  see — Sunday. 
No,  I  don't  think — unless  you—  I  tell  you:  I 
have  to  be  downtown  at  three  to-morrow  afternoon. 
How  would  you  like  me  to  drive  you  to  the  station?" 

"That  will  be  great!"  he  cried.  Then  his  voice 
became  tender.  "And  there's  something  else  I 
want,  Rita:  your  photograph.  I  want  to  have  it 
with  me." 

"I'll  bring  you  one." 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,95 

"Thanks,  dear — and  write  on  it,  will  you?" 
"Yes.     About  quarter  after  two,  then?" 

He  was  waiting,  with  his  baggage,  in  the  lower  hall 
next  afternoon  when  her  trim  little  French  landaulet 
stopped  at  the  door.  He  was  becoming  nervous; 
but  she  wasn't  so  very  late;  and  Fifth  Avenue  wasn't 
crowded  on  Sunday — they  could  drive  down  quickly. 

"You  brought  the  photograph?"  he  asked  eagerly 
as  they  drove  off. 

She  handed  it  to  him.  He  slipped  it  out  of  the 
glazed  paper  envelope. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "as  the  Festival  Queen  in 
'Louise'!  Lovely!" 

But  secretly  he  was  a  little  disappointed — not  with 
the  photograph,  but  with  the  inscription:  "Faith 
fully  yours,  Rita  Coventry."  He  often  signed  his 
letters  to  men  friends  "Faithfully  yours."  He 
couldn't  help  wishing  she  had  at  least  written  "To 
Dick" — or  better  than  that,  since  the  picture  showed 
her  as  Louise,  she  might  have  written  those  lines 
from  the  opera  which  would  always  have  for  him  a 
significance  so  tender: 

Pourquoi  serais-je  belle 

Si  ce  nest  pour  etre  aim'ee? 

Still,  when  you  really  thought  about  it,  that  word 
"faithfully"  could  mean  a  great  deal.  He  opened 
the  suitcase  on  the  floor  in  front  of  him  and  gently 
placed  the  photograph  within. 


196  RITA  COVENTRY 

"  Do  you  know  I've  never  had  a  letter  from  you?" 
he  said.  "Not  even  a  little  note."  He  slipped  off 
his  glove  and  took  her  white-gloved  hand,  which  was 
lying  in  her  lap.  "Send  me  a  line  out  to  Chicago, 
will  you,  Rita?" 

"I'll  try,"  she  answered;  but  the  little  chuckle 
that  followed  the  remark  disconcerted  him.  "  I  got 
a  letter  from  a  cowboy  yesterday,"  she  explained. 
"  He  said  he  saw  my  picture  in  a  magazine,  and  be 
wants  me  to  write  to  him." 

He  smiled  dimly. 

Ah,  what  a  short  glimpse  of  her  this  little  ride 
gave  him;  already  they  were  halfway  to  the  sta 
tion. 

"To-night,  when  you  are  going  in  to  dinner,"  he 
said,  "you  can  think  of  me  sitting  alone  in  the  dining 
car." 

"It's  a  shame  you  have  to  go,"  she  answered, 
pressing  his  hand. 

"  I  made  a  desperate  effort  to  get  out  of  it,"  he 
told  her,  and  with  feeling  added:  "I  simply  loathe 
to  leave  you.  I  hope  you're  going  to  miss  me?" 

"It's  this  getting  away  that's  the  hard  part,"  she 
sympathized.  "The  break  of  leaving.  But  it  won't 
be  so  bad  when  you  get  there.  You'll  be  busy. 
You'll  be  back  before  you  know  it." 

"  But  your  dinner —      "  he  began. 

"Oh,  I'll  be  giving  other  dinners." 

"And  don't  forget  that  you're  coming  to  dine 
with  me.  I  tell  you:  I'll  wire  you  from  Chicago  as 


RITA  COVENTRY  i97 

soon  as  I  know  when  I'll  be  home  again.  Then  you 
can  save  the  first  free  evening." 

She  nodded. 

"You  won't  mind  coming  alone?  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  ask  anybody  else — unless  you  think  ap 
pearances  might— 

"Appearances?"  she  broke  in  with  a  little  laugh. 
"You're  right — you  don't  know  me.  I  can't  be 
bothered  with  such  things.  I  go  where  I  please." 
She  laughed  again.  "  I'm  not  quite  so  emancipated, 
though,  as  some  people  in  the  opera.  Apparently 
some  of  them  regard  gossip  as  an  asset — good  ad 
vertising." 

"As  soon  as  I  get  back  then!"  he  said  almost 
gayly  as  the  car  passed  under  the  overhanging  cliffs 
of  Grand  Central  Station;  and  as  a  porter  advanced 
to  open  the  door  he  let  go  her  hand  and  exclaimed 
in  a  low  voice,  "I  love  you,  dear!" 

The  man  took  his  bags  and  he  alighted. 

"Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  drive?"  he  asked,  paus 
ing,  hat  in  hand,  and  thinking  how  luxurious  she 
looked  against  the  soft  upholstery. 

"The  Discaphone  studios— he  knows." 

"Making  records — on  Sunday?" 

"Yes;  they  do  it  for  me  because  I'm  so  busy 
through  the  week." 

"What  are  you  singing?" 

'"Bonnie  Doon/"  she  replied. 

Some  taxicabs  had  driven  up  behind  them,  and 
now,  unable  to  proceed,  set  up  a  hooting  of  horns 


198  RITA  COVENTRY 

which    reverberated    raucously    in    that    cavernous 
space. 

Quickly  he  closed  the  door.  The  car  flashed  away. 
He  turned  and  followed  the  porter  into  the  busy  con 
course  of  the  station. 

Sometime  during  the  night  he  was  awakened  by 
a  silence.  The  train  was  creeping  to  a  standstill. 
Wondering  where  he  might  be,  he  raised  the  curtain, 
looked  out,  and  recognized  the  dingy  Cleveland 
station.  The  train  stopped;  the  airbrakes  sighed 
wistfully. 

Alice!  Alice  very  near!  The  train  wasn't  sched 
uled  to  stop  at  Cleveland,  and  even  if  it  had  been, 
she  could  not  have  come  down  at  such  an  hour.  It 
was  really  kinder,  then,  not  to  have  let  her  know  that 
he  was  passing  through.  He  should  have  written  to 
her,  though.  He  ought  to  have  done  that.  He 
really  should  have  finished  that  letter  to  her  when  he 
came  across  it  in  his  pocket  a  day  or  two  ago.  But 
he  would  write  her  from  Chicago. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  he  hadn't  heard  from  her  in 
some  time.  Almost  a  week.  And  she  had  said  that 
she  was  going  to  write  to  him  every  day.  What  did 
her  silence  mean?  He  hoped  her  sister  wasn't  worse. 

Vaguely,  as  a  background  to  his  thoughts,  he  was 
aware  of  the  metallic  clanging  of  journal-box  doors 
being  slammed  shut,  one  after  another,  as  an  in 
spector  worked  his  way  along  beside  the  train:  first 
far  off,  then  nearer,  then  on  the  front  of  the  car  he 


RITA  COVENTRY  ,99 

was  in.  Now  he  could  see  the  moving  light  of  the 
man's  lantern. 

Poor  Alice!  Not  in  the  whole  world  was  there  a 
sweeter,  gentler  spirit! 

The  inspector  passed  beneath  the  window,  his 
lantern  making  a  revealing  flare  around  him.  The 
light  penetrated  the  dusty  double  panes,  and  there 
was  a  moment  when,  for  Parrish,  the  inner  darkness 
was  dispelled. 

He  had  treated  Alice  badly.  He  had  been  selfish, 
cruel.  Now  for  the  first  time  he  acknowledged  the 
truth.  And  the  truth  stabbed  him. 

The  sound  of  the  slamming  of  journal-box  doors 
grew  faint  in  the  distance;  the  train  began  to  move; 
it  slipped  out  into  the  night.  But  Parrish  felt  it 
now  an  unrelenting  force,  like  Fate,  which  had  him 
in  its  clutches  and  was  drawing  him  away.  For  a 
long  time  he  lay  there  in  the  darkness  thinking  of 
Alice,  his  heart  filled  with  loneliness. 

His  first  day  in  Chicago  was  crowded  with  busi 
ness;  in  the  evening  there  was  a  dinner  to  attend  and 
it  was  late  when  he  got  back  to  his  hotel;  instead  of 
writing  to  Alice  he  sent  a  long  explanatory  telegram, 
carefully  phrased,  pleading  business  pressure  and 
promising  if  possible  to  see  her  at  Cleveland  on  the 
return  journey. 

"Am  worried  at  not  hearing  from  you,"  his  mes 
sage  to  her  ended.  "How  is  your  sister  and  how 
are  you?  Please  wire  answer." 

It  was  a  little  awkward  to  let  her  know  he  was  in 


200  RITA  COVENTRY 

Chicago;  in  one  sense  he  would  have  much  preferred 
not  to  communicate  with  her  until  he  got  back;  but 
he  felt  better  for  having  sent  the  telegram. 

Her  reply,  which  arrived  early  the  next  afternoon, 
surprised  him  somewhat.  Considering  the  length 
of  his  dispatch  to  her,  she  might,  he  thought,  have 
been  a  little  more  communicative.  Her  message 
ran: 

Margaret  doing  nicely.     Am  well.     Don't  trouble  to  stop  here. 

Ten  words  exactly.  How  like  a  woman!  A  wo 
man  thought  nothing  of  spending  forty  dollars  on  a 
hat,  but  to  save  a  few  cents  would  boil  a  telegram  to 
its  bare  bones.  Though  it  contained  the  information 
he  desired  he  found  the  message  unsatisfactory.  Her 
telegrams  usually  ended  with  the  word  "love." 
That,  though,  would  have  made  eleven  words.  But 
how  like  her,  that  last  self-sacrificing  phrase,  telling 
him  not  to  trouble  to  stop  at  Cleveland  on  the  way 
back,  although  he  well  knew  her  eagerness  to  see  him. 

The  effect  upon  Parrish  of  his  wire  to  Alice  was  so 
agreeable  that,  two  days  later,  he  telegraphed  again. 
This  time  there  was  no  answer.  Two  days  more 
passed,  however,  before  he  noticed  that ;  and  by  then 
the  foreground  of  his  mind  was  occupied  by  some 
thing  else:  Why  didn't  that  letter  come  from  Rita? 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  week  he  had  begun  to 
look  for  it,  having  his  mail  sent  to  his  room  with  the 
papers  early  in  the  morning,  and  making  excuses  to 
get  back  to  the  hotel  during  the  day.  But  here  it 


RITA  COVENTRY  201 

was  Saturday;  he  was  going  home  this  afternoon 
having  heard  nothing  of  Rita  beyond  what  he  had 
gleaned  from  New  York  newspapers,  stale  with  the  pe 
culiar  staleness  of  newspapers  twenty-four  hours  old. 
The  concert  had  occurred  on  Wednesday.  She 
had  sung  not  only  a  charming  new  arrangement  of 
"Bonnie  Doon,"  but,  as  encores,  two  other  songs  by 
Patrick  Delaney,  the  promising  young  American 
composer,  who  provided  a  sympathetic  accompani 
ment.  Both  the  papers  he  saw  mentioned  that  Rita 
had  been  in  unusually  fine  voice. 

On  the  line  that  passed  through  Cleveland  he  was 
offered  only  an  upper  berth,  so  he  took  another  road. 
Alice  would  understand.  In  New  York,  of  course, 
letters  from  her  would  be  awaiting  him,  and  when  he 
answered  them  he  would  explain.  But  when  on 
Sunday  afternoon  he  reached  his  apartment,  he  had 
only  one  thought :  to  see  Rita.  The  early  twilight  was 
shadowing  the  city  as  he  arrived  at  her  house. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  not  well,"  said  Pierre.  "  I  will 
see." 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope?"  Parrish  asked, 
alarmed. 

"Only  a  little  cold,  monsieur,  but  she  did  not  get 
up  to-day.  Mademoiselle  has  to  be  so  very  careful. 
She  sings  to-morrow  night." 

Pierre  was  not  such  a  bad  sort  after  all ! 

While  he  was  gone  Parrish  traced  patterns  on  the 
rug  with  his  cane. 


202  RITA  COVENTRY 

"This  way,  monsieur,"  said  the  butler  when  he 
returned,  and  then  up  those  two  well-remembered 
flights  he  led  the  way  to  Rita's  bedroom  door,  where 
he  stood  aside  and  motioned  Parrish  to  enter. 

The  sounds  coming  from  within  were  not  indica 
tive  of  illness;  several  people  were  talking  animatedly, 
and  Parrish  entered  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
rumbling  chuckle,  uttered  by  a  bearded  gentleman 
reclining  upon  the  foot  of  Rita's  bed,  whom  he  at 
once  recognized  as  the  big  basso,  Fremecourt. 

"And  what  do  you  think  she  do  then?"  he  thun 
dered.  "You  think  she  thank  me?  Hah!  No!" 
He  roared  derisively.  "No!  She  call  me  names. 
'You  grea-at,  beeg,  clumsy  bool!'  she  say.  And  all 
for  what?  Because  I  try  to  do  her  leetle  service!  I 
say  to  her:  'Madame,  your  skirt  is  beautful,  but  it 
ees  leetle  beet  open  in  the  back."  He  threw  up  his 
hands  in  comic  resignation. 

Rita,  while  joining  in  the  laughter,  waved  to  Par 
rish.  He  crossed  the  room,  took  her  outstretched 
hand,  and  somewhat  to  his  surprise  found  himself 
being  drawn  down  by  it. 

"On  the  cheek,"  she  said.  "I  have  a  cold.  You 
know  Mrs.  Fernis,  I  think,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schoen? 
And  this  beeg  bool,  sitting  where  I  should  like  to  put 
my  feet,  is  Monsieur  Fremecourt — Mr.  Parrish." 

Laughing  again,  they  greeted  him.  Fremecourt 
rose,  made  Parrish  a  brief  little  bow,  and  cried  out  to 
Rita  in  booming  protest: 

"Hah!    So  you,  too,  call  me  bool?     It  is  too  much.' 


RITA  COVENTRY  203 

I  go!"  He  took  her  hand,  bent  over,  and  for  a 
moment  extinguished  her  in  his  astrakhan  beard. 
Then  standing  erect  he  smacked  his  lips,  and  with  a 
grand  gesture  proclaimed,  "You  see,  my  darling,  I 
do  not  fear  to  kees  your  sweet  leeps.  Your  leetle 
germs  have  for  me  no  terrors.  On  the  contrary, 
they  shall  have  a  nice  nesting  place  in  my  beard." 

With  a  flourish  of  farewells  he  departed,  and  had 
hardly  gone  when  Mrs.  Fernis  rose. 

"Remember,  dear,"  she  warned,  "the  doctor 
said  you  were  not  to  talk.  You've  been  talking  al 
together  too  much.  I  blame  myself  for  having 
stayed  so  long." 

The  Schoens  made  this  their  cue  for  departing 
also. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go,  too,"  said  Parrish,  left 
alone  with  her,  but  as  he  spoke  he  drew  his  chair 
close  to  the  bed. 

"Oh,  not  right  away,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  about 
your  trip." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  he,  "except  that 
I  accomplished  what  I  went  for.  I  thought  you  said 
you'd  write  to  me?" 

"I  did  start  a  letter,  but  some  people  came  in  and 
interrupted  me  and  1  didn't  have  time  to  finish  it." 

"Let  me  have  it,  anyway.  I've  never  had  a  letter 
from  you,  you  know.' 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "I  found  it  kicking  around 
my  desk  yesterday  and  tore  it  up.  I  had  your  tele 
gram  by  then,  you  see." 


204  RITA  COVENTRY 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"The  doctor,  mademoiselle,"  announced  Pierre. 

Parrish  rose  as  the  middle-aged  physician  entered, 
carrying  his  bag. 

"What  would  you  do  with  a  girl  like  this?"  he 
began  as  soon  as  she  had  introduced  them.  "I 
can't  do  anything  with  her.  I  tell  her  not  to  use 
her  voice,  and  I  come  and  find  a  mob  of  people  leav 
ing  the  house." 

"Mr.  Parrish  just  came,"  defended  Rita. 

"And  I'm  just  going,"  he  supplemented. 

"Anyway,"  Rita  went  on,  "all  you  doctors  are 
bullies."  She  turned  to  Parrish.  "Of  course  you  know 
about  their  latest  fad?  Colds  aren't  colds  any 
more — they're  autointoxication,  if  you  please.  So 
what  does  this  brute  do?  He  puts  me  on  a  diet: 
Nothing  fit  to  eat.  And  I  love  my  little  tummy  so!" 

"A  lot  of  difference  it  makes  what  I  tell  you  to  do," 
retorted  the  doctor  good-humou redly.  "I  can't  see 
why  you  have  me  at  all.  Yes,  I  can,  too — to  patch 
you  up  in  time  to  sing.  You're  too  strong  for  your 
own  good,  young  lady;  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
you!" 

He  laid  his  case  on  a  table  near  the  bed  and  opened 
it.  As  he  did  so  Pierre  entered,  carrying  a  tray. 
The  doctor  looked  at  it. 

"Here!"  he  exclaimed.  "What's  that  bacon  do 
ing  on  top  of  that  milk  toast?" 

"  I  can't  eat  that  soggy  stuff  without  something  to 
flavour  it,"  protested  Rita. 


RITA  COVENTRY  205 

"But  I  told  you,"  the  doctor  insisted,  "nothing 
smoked  and  nothing  fried." 

"Pierre,"  said  Rita,  "you  must  learn  to  time  your 
entrances.  Take  the  tray  back  and  bring  it  after 
the  doctor  has  gone." 

"Without  that  bacon!"  added  the  latter  severely 
as  he  screwed  the  top  on  an  atomizer. 

Parrish  took  Rita's  hand.  What  a  lovely  invalid 
she  was! 

"Tuesday  night,  then?" 

"Yes,  unless  I'm  dead  of  starvation." 

"A  little  before  eight?" 

She  nodded. 

The  rosy  glow  of  lamps  fell  caressingly  upon  her 
face  and  throat.  He  held  her  hand  for  an  instant, 
gazing  at  her.  Fremecourt  had  kissed  her  on  the 
lips  before  them  all.  Why  couldn't  he  before  the 
doctor?  But  he  knew  why.  It  was  because  he 
wanted  to  so  much. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ON  MONDAY  he  had  men  up  to  tune  and 
polish  his  miniature  grand  piano,  and  he  left 
word  with  I  to  to  be  sure  to  have  the  polisher 
remove  that  mark  on  the  music  rack  where  a  cigarette 
had  burned  it,  long  ago.  On  his  way  downtown  he 
bought  a  piano-lamp  with  a  carved  Florentine  base 
and  a  shade  of  Burgundy-colour  silk,  and  that  even 
ing  he  and  I  to  did  some  rearranging  in  the  living 
room,  turning  the  piano  so  that  a  person  seated  at 
the  instrument  would  face  the  room,  with  the  lamp 
light  falling  from  behind.  When  the  furniture  was 
settled  to  his  liking,  Parrish  tried  Rita's  photograph, 
in  its  new  silver  frame,  in  various  places.  It  looked 
best,  he  thought,  upon  the  mantelpiece,  where 
Alice's  picture,  also  silver  framed,  had  so  long  stood 
alone. 

But  where  to  put  Alice?  He  carried  the  portrait 
to  his  room  and  tried  it  on  his  dresser  and  his  chif 
fonier;  then,  dissatisfied,  he  went  into  the  library 
and  stood  it  on  his  desk,  where  for  some  curious 
reason  it  again  seemed  out  of  place.  Strange  how 
hard  it  was  to  find  a  corner  for  it.  The  effort  made 
him  sad. 

He  had  not  greatly  relished  the  thought  of  facing 
206 


RITA  COVENTRY  207 

a  pile  of  letters  from  Alice  on  that  desk  when  he  re 
turned  from  Chicago,  but  having  found  none  he  dis 
covered  he  was  disappointed.  Never  before  had  she 
gone  so  long  without  communicating  with  him.  It 
was  very  peculiar.  With  a  sigh  he  took  up  his  pen 
to  write  to  her. 

His  letter  did  not  altogether  satisfy  him;  under  the 
circumstances,  however,  it  was  the  best  he  could  do; 
he  hoped  she  would  not  notice  the  gaps.  He  sealed 
it,  affixed  a  special-delivery  stamp,  dropped  it  in  the 
mail  chute  in  the  hall,  and  returned  to  the  living 
room. 

How  different  it  looked  now,  with  the  new  lamp, 
the  piano  turned  around,  and  Rita's  picture  on  the 
mantelpiece.  That,  of  course — the  placing  of  her 
picture  there — was  the  great  change.  A  grim  little 
allegory  of  the  love-life  of  a  man! 

Next  morning  he  gave  I  to  explicit  directions  about 
that  evening's  dinner.  They  would  have  cocktails, 
and  for  hors  d'oeuvre,  fresh  caviare;  the  soup  would 
be  Russian  borsch;  then  filets  mignons  with  mush 
rooms  under  glass,  and  crisp  little  potatoes  gauf- 
rettes,  followed  by  salad,  cheese,  and  coffee.  He 
would  bring  some  of  that  special  coffee  home  with 
him  this  afternoon. 

From  his  well-stocked  wine  closet  he  took  the 
two  bottles  he  most  prized :  a  chartreuse  which  had 
been  extremely  choice  even  in  pre-Volstead  days, 
and  his  last  quart  of  Krug  1908. 

He  wore  a  fur-lined  coat  that  day.    Winter  had 


208  RITA  COVENTRY 

come  back.  A  fine  snow  driven  by  a  gale  from  the 
northwest  stung  his  face  as  he  walked  to  the  Ele 
vated,  leaning  into  the  wind. 

Anyway,  her  cold  was  better;  she  had  sung  last 
night. 

The  roadbed  of  the  Elevated  was  covered  with  a 
thin  layer  of  snow,  like  frosting  on  a  cake.  The 
man  at  the  ticket-chopping  box  had  the  collar  of  his 
blue  cloth  coat  turned  up;  his  face  was  purple  with 
the  cold,  and  frozen  breath  clung  to  his  moustache. 
Now  and  then  he  would  put  his  woollen  mittens  to 
his  ears  as  he  jigged  in  his  felt  boots,  his  back  to  the 
storm.  A  fashionably  dressed  woman  standing  near 
him,  waiting  for  the  train,  wore  a  turban  and  cape 
of  caracul  under  which  her  arms  were  folded  and 
her  shoulders  hunched,  elevating  the  cape  and  mak 
ing  it  and  the  skirt  beneath  seem  even  shorter  than 
the  fashion  of  the  day  demanded.  Of  her  face  one 
could  see  only  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  a  bit  of  upper 
lip,  and  a  saucy  nose.  On  her  feet  were  light  patent- 
leather  slippers  with  French  heels,  and  these,  and  the 
trim  length  of  taupe-coloured  silk  stocking  she  ex 
hibited — stockings  the  shade  of  sunburned  skin — 
seemed  the  more  inadequate  in  contrast  to  the  warm 
bulk  of  the  cape.  Parrish  shivered  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

All  day  the  storm  continued,  the  high  wind  sweep 
ing  the  hard  little  pellets  of  snow  out  of  the  streets 
and  into  corners,  like  a  hasty  housekeeper  cleaning 
up  for  company;  and  when  he  opened  the  door  of 


RITA  COVENTRY  209 

his  apartment  that  evening  and  was  greeted  by  the 
pleasant  odour  and  cheerful  crackle  of  burning  logs, 
he  had  an  inspiration. 

"Ito,"  he  said  as  he  gave  his  servant  the  package 
of  special  coffee,  "set  a  little  table  for  dinner  in  the 
living  room  beside  the  fire." 

After  dressing,  he  came  into  that  room,  and  criti 
cally  surveyed  the  arrangement.  "Excellent,"  he 
said  to  the  Japanese,  "except,  instead  of  placing 
the  lady  opposite  me  you  must  seat  her  facing 
the  fire." 

To-night  Rita  surprised  him  by  arriving  ahead  of 
time.  He  was  aware  of  the  fragrance  of  fresh  air 
about  her  as  he  took  her  sable  cape,  and  as  Ito  car 
ried  the  garment  to  the  other  room  he  did  not  waste 
the  opportunity.  Her  cheek  felt  like  a  rose  fresh 
from  the  refrigerator  of  a  florist. 

Perceiving  the  table  set  by  the  fire,  she  exclaimed 
with  pleasure,  and,  crossing,  rested  a  slippered  foot 
upon  the  fender,  holding  her  hands  toward  the  burn 
ing  logs.  On  her  wrist  his  bracelet  sparkled  splen 
didly,  sending  out  needles  of  brilliance,  red,  green,  and 
white.  The  wavering  flames  cast  changing  lights 
and  shadows  on  her  arms  and  face,  and  touched  the 
folds  of  her  black  velvet  gown  with  a  mysterious  rosy 
bloom. 

A  woman  and  a  grate  fire — Rita  beside  his  hearth ! 
He  tingled  with  a  sense  of  domesticity. 

Ito  came  in  with  the  cocktails;  standing  beside 
the  table  they  touched  glasses  and  drank;  then  as 


210  RITA  COVENTRY 

Rita  set  down  her  glass  she  found  the  orchids  at  her 
place  and  held  them  against  her  gown.  "  But  I  won't 
put  them  on  now,"  she  said,  laying  them  beside  her 
plate.  "  I  want  them  here  where  I  can  see  them." 

The  dinner  pleased  her;  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
one  playing  truant  from  a  diet  she  praised  it,  course 
by  course. 

"And  this  wine — delicious!"  she  said. 

"The  last  quart  of  my  1908  Krug,"  he  told  her,  grat 
ified.  "I've  been  saving  it  for  a  great  occasion." 

"It  is  nice  of  you  to  have  made  it  this  occasion, 
but  you  shouldn't  have  opened  it  for  me.  I  don't 
need  stimulation." 

"  If  you  mean  you  don't  need  it  this  evening,"  he 
returned  playfully,  "  I  could  distill  a  compliment  out 
of  that." 

"Help  yourself." 

As  I  to  was  in  the  kitchen  he  mischievously  chose 
to  place  his  own  construction  on  the  invitation ;  where 
upon  she  feigned  a  great  demureness,  singing: 

"Je  ne  savais  que  dire,  et  j'ai  rougi  d'abord." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  greatly  pleased  with  himself  be 
cause  he  recognized  the  fragment  from  "Faust"; — 
"but  Marguerite  was  early  Victorian.  I  prefer 
Louise's  idea  of  love.  Marguerite  is  a  wax  doll  in  a 
blonde  wig.  She's  so  good  and  so  pathetic.  Instead 
of  being  victimized  she  should  have  married  some 
worthy  burgher  and  become  the  mother  of  a  happy 
family." 


RITA  COVENTRY  211 

"Let's  send  her  out  boat  riding  in  the  park  with 
Lohengrin,"  said  Rita. 

"All  right,  but  Louise — she's  the  one  I'm  in 
terested  in.  She  stands  out  from  other  operatic 
heroines  as  you  do  from  other  women.  Her  poet 
may  quarrel  with  her  later  on,  but  she'll  never  bore 
him.  If  they  quarrel  it'll  be  because  he's  jealous  of 
her." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "Louise  isn't  an  easy  lady  to 
hold.  Undoubtedly  she'll  tire  of  him.  And  when 
she  does,  let's  give  her  a  career.  Let's  have  her  take 
up  with  Lieutenant  Pinkerton  and  then,  when  he's 
fallen  madly  in  love  with  her,  pay  him  off  for  jilting 
Madame  Butterfly  by  eloping  with  Parsifal." 

"By  all  means,"  he  agreed.  "An  affair  with 
Louise  would  be  a  good  thing  for  Parsifal.  It 
would  teach  him  something  about  life." 

Over  their  coffee  and  liqueur  they  laughed  to 
gether.  As  they  rose  he  lighted  a  cigarette.  Rita 
picked  up  her  orchids  and  moving  to  the  piano  tried 
it  with  an  arpeggio. 

"A  good  tone,"  she  remarked,  as  if  she  had  not 
expected  it. 

"You're  surprised?" 

"A  little,"  she  said,  seating  herself  and  laying  the 
orchids  on  the  music  rack. 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"Oh— bachelors'  pianos."     She  spoke  airily. 

"What  do  you  know  about  bachelors'  pianos?" 

Rita  laughed. 


212  RITA  COVENTRY 

"They're  apt  to  be  like  their  owners — a  little  .bat 
tered,"  she  said.  "Give  me  a  cigarette." 

"Excuse  me.  I  thought  you  smoked  only  to 
tease  Busini."  He  hastened  to  offer  his  case. 

"This  time,"  she  answered  as  he  gave  her  a  light, 
"it's  because  your  dinner  was  too  good." 

After  a  few  puffs  at  the  cigarette  she  laid  it  down 
and  began  to  modulate  softly  from  key  to  key. 

"Some  friends  brought  a  Southern  girl  to  my 
house  the  other  day,"  she  told  him  as  she  played. 
"They  wanted  me  to  hear  her.  She  had  some  negro 
songs — the  real  thing  Have  you  ever  heard  that 
plantation  song,  'All  God's  Children  Got  Shoes'? 
And  she  did  some  modern  ones — blues — very  funny. 
Of  course  I  can't  sing  so  soon  after  dinner,  but— 
She  played  an  accompaniment  and  began,  half  re 
citing: 

"I  got  de  blues  and  I'm  too  darn  mean  to  cry — ' 
ending  with: 

"Some  people  say  dose  weary  blues  ain't  bad. 
It's  jus'de  wuss  ole  feelin'  dat  I  evuh  had!" 

Now  and  then  she  would  glance  up  at  Parrish  as 
he  leaned  on  the  piano,  and  there  was  an  amused 
expression  in  her  eyes  which  told  him  she  was  taking 
a  childish  delight  in  doing  something  so  remote  from 
her  usual  repertoire. 

"I've  been  teaching  it  to  Fremecourt,"  she  said 
as  she  ended.  "You  ought  to  hear  him  try  to  get 


RITA  COVENTRY  213 

the  negro  dialect."  Then  with  sudden  enthusiasm: 
"There's  an  idea!  I'll  give  a  party  and  have  him 
sing  some  of  these  songs.  We'll  call  it  a  week  from 
to-night — unless  you  hear  from  me  to  the  contrary." 
She  rose  from  the  piano.  "Now  what  about  those 
treasures  you  were  going  to  show  me?" 

He  led  her  about,  keeping  close  to  her  as  he  ex 
hibited  the  portraits  and  the  more  important  pieces 
of  furniture  from  Blenkinswood:  the  Gilbert  Stuarts, 
the  Sully,  the  St.  Memins;  the  Duncan  Phyfe  dining 
table,  sideboard  and  chairs;  the  old  silver  punch 
bowl;  the  Lowestoft  china;  the  card  table  at  which 
Washington  had  played  when  visiting  Blenkins 
wood;  the  armchair  of  his  host,  a  signer  of  the  Dec 
laration;  and  the  Chinese  Chippendale  clock  or 
dered  out  from  England  by  Parrish's  three-times- 
great-grandfather  Blenkin.  There  were  letters  about 
that  clock — written  in  the  old  gentleman's  distin 
guished  hand,  in  ink  now  brown  with  age,  on  sheets 
of  handmade  paper.  Parrish  had  found  them  in  a 
chest  in  the  attic  of  the  plantation  house  and  had 
sent  the  most  interesting  specimens  to  an  expert  who 
had  reenforced  them  with  silk  at  their  worn  folds, 
and  mounted  them  in  portfolios,  along  with  steel  en 
gravings  of  the  venerable  house  and  of  several  of  his 
ancestors. 

The  table  having  been  removed  from  beside  the 
fire,  and  the  couch  pushed  back  to  its  usual  position, 
Parrish  brought  the  old  papers  from  the  library  and 
seating  himself  beside  Rita,  placed  the  first  port- 


2i4  RITA  COVENTRY 

folio  in  her  lap,  turning  the  sheets  for  her  and  ex 
plaining  as  he  went  along. 

They  had  looked  at  a  number  of  letters  and  had 
come  to  an  engraving  showing  the  house  "with  its 
new  wing,  added  in  1791,"  when  the  old  clock  slowly 
boomed  the  hour.  It  was  ten. 

"What  day  is  this?"  suddenly  demanded  Rita. 

"Tuesday." 

"But— the  date?" 

"March  first.     What's  the  matter?" 

"The  first!"  she  exclaimed,  starting  to  her  feet. 
The  open  portfolio  slipped  from  her  lap  to  the  floor, 
the  papers  scattering  on  the  rug,  but  she  seemed  not 
to  notice  them.  "Heavens!  I've  had  a  feeling  all 
evening —  Now  I  lave  done  it!  A  dinner  in  my 
honour  to-night— at  the  Krausses'!" 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,"  said  Parrish,  relieved.  From 
her  agitation  he  had  feared  it  might  be  something 
worse.  "Yes,  it's  too  bad.  But" — he  shrugged — 
"well,  you  simply  weren't  there,  that's  all." 

"But  you  don't  understand!  It's  terribly  im 
portant!  If  it  weren't  for  Hermann  Krauss  there 
wouldn't  be  any  opera!  For  heaven's  sake  get  me 
my  wrap!  I  must  rush  right  up  there!" 

"Nonsense!  It  would  be  half-past  ten  when  you 
arrived — they'd  be  going  home.  And  your  car — 
where's  your  car?" 

She  was  near  the  door.  Now  she  walked  swiftly 
back,  stepping  on  one  of  the  papers. 

"Don't  argue!"  she  cried,  clenching  her  two  fists. 


RITA  COVENTRY  215 

"Quickly!  Get  my  cape!  And  a  taxi!  I  must  get 
there  if  I  have  to  walk  in  the  snow!" 

In  spite  of  his  reluctance  he  was  stirred  to  action 
by  her  vehemence.  Slowly,  resentfully,  he  moved 
toward  his  room,  where  the  sable  cape  lay  on  his 
bed.  But  his  pace  did  not  suit  her. 

"Hurry!  Hurry!"  she  cried,  following  on  his 
heels. 

A  fine  ending,  this,  for  their  evening!  Before 
picking  up  the  cape  he  turned  to  make  a  last  ap 
peal. 

"For  God's  sake,  Rita,"  he  began,  "have  a  little 
sense!  How  can  you— 

"Will — you — hurry?"  she  cried  shrilly. 

He  took  up  the  cape  and  flung  it  around  her. 
Then  in  a  paroxysm  of  angry  longing  he  seized  her 
in  his  arms  and  covered  her  face  with  savage  kisses. 

"There's  no  time  for  this!"  Her  voice  was 
smothered.  She  pushed  away  from  him,  beating 
with  one  fist  upon  his  chest. 

He  let  her  go. 

"  Damn  you,"  he  muttered,  " you  drive  me  crazy ! " 

She  rushed  from  the  room. 

"Wait!"  he  called  after  her.  "Give  me  a  chance 
to  get  my  hat  and  coat,  anyway!" 

"You  don't  need  to  come!  I  don't  need  you!" 
The  words  streamed  back  to  him  as  she  raced  toward 
the  outer  door. 

He  ran  to  the  hall,  seized  his  coat,  and  struggling 
into  it  as  he  went,  joined  her  in  the  corridor,  where 


216  RITA  COVENTRY 

she  was  waiting  for  the  elevator.  She  did  not  look 
at  him.  They  did  not  speak. 

The  doorman  hailed  a  passing  taxi.  As  it  stopped 
it  skidded  in  a  pocket  of  snow  beside  the  curb.  Par- 
rish,  endeavouring  to  help  her  in,  had  only  a  sense  of 
the  sweep  of  fur  upon  his  finger  tips. 

"I  don't  need  you!"  she  reiterated  from  the  dark 
ness  within. 

"Get  over!"  he  said  roughly,  and  after  giving  the 
driver  the  address  he  shoved  his  way  through  the 
narrow  door  and  slammed  it  shut. 

At  the  end  of  their  short,  silent  drive  he  alighted, 
ceremoniously  assisted  her  across  the  walk  and  rang 
the  doorbell.  Then,  as  a  footman  opened  the  inner 
door,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  gave  her  a  stiff  good-night. 

"Good-night,"  she  replied  pleasantly.  And  as 
she  passed  in  she  added  over  her  shoulder,  "Good 
night,  Bruin!" 

He  got  back  into  the  taxi  and  drove  home.  His 
feet  were  cold  and  wet;  snow  had  leaked  in  over  the 
edges  of  his  pumps.  It  would  serve  her  right  if  he 
got  pneumonia  and  died. 

His  apartment  was  still  redolent  of  her.  When 
with  her  he  had  never  noticed  that  she  used  per 
fumery,  but  now  that  she  was  gone  the  place  was 
haunted  by  her  ghostlike  fragrance.  The  cheerful 
fire  was  a  mockery.  He  went  to  his  bedroom  to 
change  his  pumps,  and  crossing  the  floor  kicked 
something  with  his  foot.  It  proved  to  be  a  gold 


RITA  COVENTRY  217 

mesh  bag  with  a  diamond-studded  frame.  Un 
doubtedly  it  had  valuable  contents.  She  would 
worry  about  it.  Let  her,  then!  He  put  it  in  his 
safe.  If  she  wanted  to  find  out  about  it  she  could 
telephone ! 

In  his  slippers  he  returned  to  the  living  room. 
The  Blenkinswood  portfolio  and  its  contents  still 
lay  upon  the  rug  where  she  had  dropped  them;  his 
indignation  flamed  anew  as  he  got  down  to  pick  them 
up.  Such  frail  old  papers!  She  could  so  easily  have 
laid  them  aside!  One  of  the  Signer's  letters  had 
been  torn  in  falling;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  engrav 
ing  showing  Blenkinswood  "with  its  new  wing, 
added  in  1791,"  was  the  ruinous  imprint  of  a  sharp 
little  French  heel. 

Having  gathered  the  papers  he  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  to  arrange  them  in  their  proper  order. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Rita  hadn't 
been  interested  in  them.  He  saw  that  clearly  now. 
She  had  been  bored.  Her  attention  had  wandered. 
That  was  how  she  came  to  remember  her  engage 
ment  at  the  Krausses'.  Bored  with  these  things! 
Priceless  old  Americana!  Bored  with  Blenkinswood 
—his  house!  Alice  wouldn't  have  been  bored! 
She  was  always  asking  him  to  show  her  those  port 
folios. 

With  a  tenderness  he  had  never  before  felt  for  them 
he  carried  the  portfolios  to  the  library  and  laid  them 
in  their  place.  Rita  had  only  looked  into  the  li 
brary;  there  he  seemed  for  a  moment  to  elude  her, 


218  RITA  COVENTRY 

but  upon  his  return  to  the  living  room  that  subtle 
scent  again  assailed  his  nostrils.  Maddening!  He 
must  get  it  out  of  here.  Cold  though  it  was,  he 
would  open  a  window. 

Passing  the  piano  on  his  way  to  the  window  he 
stopped  short.  The  orchids!  He  picked  them  up. 
Already  they  were  drooping. 

The  window  was  frozen  shut;  he  had  to  hammer 
with  both  hands  at  the  sash  to  open  it.  When  it  did 
open  it  flew  up  because  of  the  momentum  from  his 
final  blow,  and  a  great  gust  of  freezing  air  burst  in, 
snapping  the  window  shade  and  setting  the  draper 
ies  awhirl.  With  his  left  hand  he  seized  the  agitated 
curtains,  holding  them  aside.  Then,  drawing  back, 
he  poised  himself  and  hurled  the  orchids  out  into  the 
icy  blackness. 

Women!  They  talked  of  love!  What  did  they 
know  about  love?  Devotion?  Oh,  yes,  they'd  ac 
cept  plenty  of  that,  and  plenty  of  everything  else, 
too!  But  when  it  came  to  reciprocating — showing 
some  consideration  for  a  man — they  simply  weren't 
there!  The  least  little  thing — an  engagement  or 
anything — would  set  them  flying  off  at  a  tangent. 
They  were  a  lot  of  unreliable,  luxury-loving,  selfish 
pussycats!  Give  them  a  cozy  cushion  by  the  fire  and 
they'd  purr  for  a  while,  but  just  when  you  began  to 
trust  them  they'd  sink  their  claws  in  you.  Women! 

Sullenly  he  closed  the  window,  put  out  the  lights, 
and  went  into  his  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  Bement  baby  had  arrived  while  Parrish 
was  in  Chicago,  and  now  Bement,  craving  di 
version  after  his  sufferings  in  paternity,  sug 
gested  to  his  partner  that  they  make  a  night  of  it  in 
town,  going  to  a  show  and  later  to  the  Midnight 
Frolic.     Of  course  it  would  have  been  nice  if  Mrs. 
Bement  had  been  well  enough  to  join  them,  but  she 
and  the  baby  were  getting  on  all  right,  and  the 
father  really  needed  to  get  away  from  that  house  and 
those  tiresome  trained  nurses. 

The  proposal,  finding  Parrish  in  the  bitter  mood  in 
which  he  had  been  left  by  Rita's  abrupt  exodus  from 
his  apartment,  appealed  to  him.  He,  too,  had  suf 
fered.  Two  nights  of  white  horror.  His  fatigue  in 
stead  of  inducing  sleep  expressed  itself  in  a  gnawing 
restlessness.  Moreover,  his  apartment  had  become 
hateful  to  him— for  the  ghosts  which  haunt  us  most 
persistently  are  not  those  of  the  dead.  The  perfume 
of  Rita  was  gone,  but  something  of  her  lingered;  he 
was  continually  aware  of  her  gold  mesh  bag  in  his 
safe,  and  of  her  photograph  upon  his  mantelpiece. 
That  photograph  picked  itself  out  for  him  in  the  room 
as  if  a  spotlight  shone  upon  it;  he  had  a  thought  of 
removing  it  but  felt  a  curious  embarrassment  about 

219 


220  RITA  COVENTRY 

doing  so;  to  remove  it  would  be  to  admit  that  he  had 
reversed  himself,  and  he  was  not  ready  to  admit  that. 
Damn  her!  She  drove  him  crazy! 

In  his  need  for  comfort  his  thoughts  turned  to 
Alice,  as  those  of  one  in  trouble  turn  to  a  neglected 
deity;  he  gazed  for  a  long  time  at  her  photograph 
upon  his  desk,  but  that  photograph  disturbed  him, 
too,  though  in  a  different  way.  Strange,  there 
seemed  to  be  a  look  of  sadness  in  the  eyes.  Why  had 
she  not  answered  his  letter?  He  was  beginning  to 
feel  hurt  by  her  neglect. 

He  wrote  and  told  her  so. 

On  Thursday  afternoon  the  partners  came  uptown 
together  to  Parrish's  apartment,  where  Bement  and 
his  suitcase  were  duly  installed.  As  men  will  when 
their  nerves  need  soothing,  they  dined  at  a  Broadway 
restaurant  where  there  was  continuous  dancing  and 
jazz  music.  In  the  play  which  they  subsequently 
attended,  a  fat  comedian,  the  victim  of  unjust  sus- 
picion,was  obliged  to  hide  under  the  bed  of  a  pretty 
but  virtuous  lady  whose  husband  was  jealous  of  her. 
The  comedian's  chief  humorous  effect  was  achieved 
when  he  crawled  from  under  the  bed  like  a  turtle  and 
wistfully  eyed  the  audience.  This  he  did  three  times, 
and  the  play  was  over,  leaving  Parrish  and  Bement 
free  to  continue  on  their  round  of  gayeties. 

Through  the  after-theatre  crowds  they  slowly 
worked  their  way  to  Forty-second  Street,  and  pass 
ing  into  the  wide  corridor  of  the  New  Amsterdam 


RITA  COVENTRY  221 

Theatre,  entered  the  elevator.  Within,  a  little 
group  was  already  waiting  for  the  car  to  ascend,  and 
among  them  Parrish  recognized  Sam  Burke,  who 
bowed  to  him;  then  as  those  within  the  elevator 
stirred  to  admit  newcomers  he  saw  behind  Burke  the 
latter's  wife  and  Clara  Proctor.  He  advanced  to 
ward  Clara  and  was  about  to  ask  if  she  had  heard 
from  Alice  when  her  stiff  little  nod  stopped  him;  and 
as  if  further  to  repel  him  she  turned  and  began  to 
converse  with  Mrs.  Burke. 

He  was  surprised.  Though  he  did  not  like  Clara 
and  was  aware  of  her  dislike  for  him,  hitherto  as  if  by 
tacit  understanding  they  had  been  carefully  polite 
to  each  other.  Well,  if  she  did  not  wish  to  continue 
the  effort  he  was  satisfied,  though  he  thought  it  stu 
pid  of  her  to  reveal  so  plainly  what  he  considered  to 
be  a  jealousy  of  his  hold  on  Alice. 

All  evening  Parrish  remained  in  a  sardonic  mood, 
and  when  after  returning  to  the  apartment  the  part 
ners  sat  up  for  a  time  over  their  highballs,  talking, 
Bement  found  himself  amazed  at  the  acidity  of  the 
other's  observations  upon  women,  life,  and  love. 
Though  he  had  known  Parrish  since  their  college  days 
he  had  not  before  realized  him  to  be  a  misogynist. 
It  must  have  been  coming  over  him  gradually.  Be 
ment  had  never  been  able  to  understand  why  Parrish 
did  not  marry,  but  this,  he  thought,  explained  it. 
A  protracted  bachelorhood  was  to  him  incompre 
hensible—the  world  was  so  full  of  lovely  girls,  and 
married  life,  in  his  experience,  so  happy.  He  and 


222  RITA  COVENTRY 

his  wife  had  long  harboured  a  secret  hope  of  finding 
the  right  girl  for  Parrish,  but  he  now  concluded  that 
the  fulfillment  of  such  a  hope  was,  if  still  a  possibility, 
exceedingly  remote. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast,  however,  after  Parrish 
had  drunk  his  coffee  and — what  was  infinitely  more 
important,  had  Bement  known  it — read  his  mail,  he 
was  noticeably  more  cheerful. 

The  junior  partner  commented  upon  this. 

"  It  worried  me,"  he  said,  "to  hear  you  so  cynical 
last  night." 

"What  did  I  say  that  was  cynical?" 

"About  women." 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Parrish  brightly,  "you're 
wrong,  old  man.  I'm  not  that  way  at  all.  All  I 
meant  was — you've  got  to  keep  them  in  their  place. 
There's  nothing  especially  cynical  about  that,  and 
certainly  there's  nothing  new  about  it."  He  went 
on:  "Everybody  knows  it,  but  when  a  man's  in 
love  he  sometimes  hasn't  sense  enough  to  put  it  into 
practice.  If  a  woman  does  something  he  doesn't 
like  he  should  ignore  her  for  a  while.  It  does  them 
good." 

It  was  the  note  from  Rita,  lying  beside  his  coffee 
cup,  that  had  made  concrete  in  his  mind  the  truth 
of  this  old  dictum.  For  two  days  he  had  ignored  her, 
and  behold  the  result:  she  had  used  the  mesh  bag 
as  an  excuse  to  write  an  apologetic  note,  reminding 
him  to  bring  it  when  he  came  to  her  house  on 
Tuesday  to  hear  Fremecourt  sing  the  negro  songs. 


RITA  COVENTRY  223 

Shrewdly  he  surmised  that  if  the  truth  were  known 
she  was  a  little  bit  afraid  he  wouldn't  come  at  all. 
Well,  let  her  be  afraid!  It  wouldn't  hurt  her  to 
worry  for  a  while ! 

That  day  he  took  the  mesh  bag  with  him  to  the 
office,  wrapped  and  sealed  it,  and  sent  it  to  her  by  a 
confidential  clerk.  She  would  look  for  a  note  in  the 
package — a  reply  to  hers.  When  she  didn't  find  it, 
that  would  give  her  something  to  think  about! 
Throughout  the  day  he  dwelt  with  malicious  pleasure 
on  the  thought  of  her  looking  in  vain  for  that  letter, 
but  by  the  next  day  he  had  begun  to  wonder  if,  con 
sidering  the  circumstances,  he  had  not  been  a  little 
too  severe  with  her.  After  all,  she  had  apologized; 
he  didn't  want  to  be  ungentlemanly. 

As  for  her  having  left  so  suddenly  the  other  night, 
though  it  was  frightfully  annoying,  he  had  to  admit 
(upon  reflecting)  that  any  one  might  forget  an  engage 
ment.  He  had  done  it  himself.  He  remembered  the 
time,  long  ago  at  Bar  Harbor,  when  he  had  forgotten 
to  go  to  a  tea-party  given  in  his  honour.  And  Alice, 
when  he  first  knew  her,  had  forgotten  an  engagement 
she  had  with  someone  else,  and  gone  out  with  him; 
certainly  Alice  was  never  intentionally  careless  about 
other  people's  feelings;  he  remembered  how  upset 
she  had  been. 

For  another  day  he  thought  the  matter  over;  then 
he  wrote  briefly  to  Rita,  accepting  her  apology.  But 
he  wasn't  going  to  make  it  too  easy  for  her — he 
didn't  say  definitely  that  he  was  coming  to  her  party 


224  RITA  COVENTRY 

on  Tuesday.  "I  am  very  busy,"  he  wrote,  "but 
will  come  if  I  can,.  ' 

When  Tuesday  night  arrived  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  go.  He  was  purposely  late,  however. 
She  was  surprised  and  happy  when  he  came  in;  he 
could  have  seen  that,  even  if  she  had  not  spoken  of  it. 

She  left  some  people  and  came  halfway  across  the 
room  to  meet  him,  saying,  "Oh — I  wasn't  certain  I 
was  going  to  see  you  to-night." 

"  I  couldn't  be  sure,"  said  he. 

"  I'd  have  been  awfully  sorry  if  you  hadn't  come," 
she  said.  "Fremecourt  is  just  going  to  sing  some  of 
those  negro  songs." 

She  led  him  about,  introducing  him  to  those  of  her 
guests  he  had  not  met.  The  room  was  filled;  fully 
half  the  people  present  were  famous  in  the  world  of 
music:  Cassoli,  the  cellist;  Seevagen  and  his  young 
rival  of  the  violin,  Heimann;  Paldowski,  the  great 
Polish  pianist,  with  his  air  of  amiable  aloofness  and 
his  soft  aureole  of  gray  hair,  talking  with  Schoen  and 
Elena  Cordoba,  the  musical  sensation  of  the  year; 
Wildenstein,  the  symphony  conductor;  Liebmann, 
the  music  publisher;  the  Krausses,  Bickfords,  Stick- 
els,  Langdons,  and  others  whose  bank  accounts 
vouchsafed  them  the  privilege  of  association  with  the 
artists;  and  of  course  Larry  Merrick  and  the  inevi 
table  Mrs.  Fernis. 

The  ludicrous  endeavours  of  the  vast  Fremecourt 
to  impersonate  an  American  negro,  handicapped  as 
he  was  by  his  French  accent,  delighted  the  assembly, 


RITA  COVENTRY  225 

and  seemed  particularly  to  appeal  to  the  melancholy 
Paldowski,  who  presently  sat  at  the  piano  and  played 
the  basso's  accompaniments.  Meanwhile,  there  were 
mysterious  departures  to  the  dining  room,  where  a 
gay  conspiracy  was  evidently  being  hatched,  and 
when  Fremecourt  stopped  singing  there  came  a  great 
tumult,  followed  by  the  appearance  of  a  burlesque 
German  band  made  up  impartially  of  musicians  and 
millionaires  wearing  paper  caps  and  playing  imitation 
instruments  of  papier-mache,  from  which  they  evoked 
sounds  by  singing  into  them.  When  the  band,  led 
by  the  famous  baton  of  Wildenstein,  had  frightfully 
played  several  numbers,  it  marched  gravely  out 
again,  syncopating  something  dimly  recognizable  as 
the  most  mournful  of  Chopin's  compositions.  Like 
the  music,  the  storm  of  applause  which  followed  was 
burlesque. 

Mrs.  Fernis  bustled  toward  Rita. 

"Dearie,"  she  demanded,  calling  half  across  the 
room,  " where's  the  young  genius  you  promised  us?" 

Rita  looked  at  the  clock  and  shrugged. 

"That's  what  I've  been  wondering,"  she  answered. 
"  I  do  hope  he  is  not  going  to  disappoint  me.  But  he 
is  an  uncertain  quantity — un  vrai  type,  I  assure 
you." 

Parrish,  standing  near,  was  looking  at  her,  wonder 
ing  if  he  knew  of  whom  she  was  speaking,  when  she, 
catching  his  eye,  seemed  to  catch  as  well  the  question 
in  his  mind,  for  she  added,  "Mr.  Parrish  can  tell  you 
what  a  gifted  young  man  he  is."  There  was  a  mis- 


226  RITA  COVENTRY 

chievous  gleam  in  her  glance.  "Mr.  Parrish  dis 
covered  him."  And  to  him  she  explained  paren 
thetically:  "I  am  speaking  of  Delaney." 

With  that  she  turned  quickly  away  and  engaged 
in  conversation  elsewhere,  leaving  him  at  the  mercy 
of  the  inquisitorial  lady,  to  extricate  himself  as  best 
he  could. 

"How  very  interesting!"  she  exclaimed.  "And 
where  did  you  find  him,  Mr.  Parrish?" 

"  I  didn't  find  him  at  all,"  he  answered  shortly. 
Then  fearing  she  would  think  him  rude  he  continued, 
"Rita's  just  being  playful.  It  was  she  who  found 
him.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"But  who  is  he?" 

"That  I  really  don't  know,"  he  returned  dismis- 
sively. 

"  1  heard  dear  Rita  when  she  sang  his  songs  in  con 
cert  a  week  or  so  ago,"  the  lady  went  on. 

"Then,"  returned  Parrish,  "you  know  more  about 
him  than  I  do.  I  was  out  of  town." 

"He  accompanied  her,  you  know." 

He  nodded. 

"There's  something  interesting  about  him — so 
young — and  so  good-looking,  don't  you  think  so?" 

Parrish,  wondering  how  Rita  could  put  up  with 
such  a  woman,  said  he  did  think  so. 

A  moment  later,  as  he  was  speculating  on  a  means 
of  escape  from  Mrs.  Fernis,  he  saw  Delaney  enter  the 
room.  He  was  in  evening  dress  and  looked  very 
well  in  it,  though  obviously  the  suit  was  not  made  by 


RITA  COVENTRY  227 

a  good  tailor.  With  some  surprise  he  noticed  that 
the  young  man  appeared  perfectly  at  ease.  He 
paused  inside  the  door  and  looked  about  the  room; 
then,  seeing  Rita,  strolled  over  and  with  that  de 
tached  air  of  his,  greeted  her. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  must  go  and  speak  to  him,"  Parrish 
said  to  Mrs.  Fernis,  thinking  he  saw  his  opportunity. 

But,  "I'll  go  with  you,"  said  the  lady.  "His 
looks  fascinate  me.  So  Hellenic!  I  want  to  meet 
him." 

Silently  he  escorted  her  across  the  room  to  where  a 
little  group  was  gathering  around  Rita  and  the  new 
arrival. 

"Of  course  you  remember  Mr.  Parrish,"  Rita  re 
minded  Delaney. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  vaguely.  "How  do  you 
do?" 

"How  do  you  do?"  responded  Parrish.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  and  when  the  other  had  given  it  an 
elusive  pressure,  presented  him  to  Mrs.  Fernis,  iden 
tifying  her  by  saying:  "Mrs.  Grace  Etheridge  Fer 
nis,  you  know."  Then  as  no  light  of  recognition 
showed  in  Delaney's  face  he  made  a  further  effort  to 
assist  him,  adding:  "Of  course  you've  read  'Sifting 
Sands'?" 

"'Shifting  Sands,'"  corrected  Mrs.  Fernis  quickly. 

"Well,  anyway,  I  haven't  read  it,"  announced 
Delaney. 

"He  reads  nothing  but  the  Russians,"  Rita  has 
tened  to  explain;  and  to  Delaney:  "When  you  get 


228  RITA  COVENTRY 

through  with  those  eight  volumes  of  Tolstoy's  'War 
and  Peace'  you  really  must  read  Mrs.  Fernis.  One 
can't  be  au  courant  without  reading  her." 

While  she  was  speaking  the  young  man  looked  at 
her  with  a  curious  intentness  that  was  characteristic 
of  him.  It  was  as  if  he  were  listening  with  his  eyes. 

"  I  see,"  he  answered  indefinitely.  Then  after  a 
glance  about  the  room  he  asked,  "  Isn't  that  Wilden- 
stein — that  man  over  there?" 

"Yes,"  Rita  answered.  "Come  over  and  meet 
him." 

But  Delaney  did  not  move. 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  he  said  ruminatively, 
"why  he  took  the  third  movement  of  the  Tschai- 
kowsky  Fifth  so  slowly  the  other  day." 

Rita  gave  a  little  shuddering  laugh. 

"Well,  don't  you  go  and  ask  him  that!" 

"Certainly  not.  But  just  the  same  he  ought  to 
stick  to  Beethoven  and  Brahms.  He  hasn't  the 
temperament  to  do  Tschaikowsky." 

Again  she  laughed. 

"Since  Wildenstein  doesn't  measure  up,"  she  said, 
"let  us  see  if  we  can't  find  someone  here  who  will. 
Would  you  care  to  know  Paldowski?" 

"Yes,  I'd  be  glad  to  meet  him." 

"That,"  said  she,  her  eyes  brimming  with  amuse 
ment,  "is  probably  as  great  a  tribute  as  he  ever  re 
ceived — though  perhaps  he  wouldn't  know  it." 

Some  late  guests  entered  and  she  crossed  the  room 
to  welcome  them. 


RITA  COVENTRY  229 

"Isn't  she  beautiful  to-night!"  frothed  Mrs.  Fer- 
nis,  looking  after  her.  "  I  never  saw  her  in  that  type 
of  frock  before,  did  you?  It  makes  her  look  so 
girlish — so  demure." 

Perhaps  because  of  the  failure  of  her  effort  to  con 
verse  with  Delaney  she  looked  at  Parrish. 

He  had  remarked  the  gown.  It  was  the  "sym 
pathetic"  shell-pink  gown  she  had  ordered  on  the  day 
he  met  her  at  the  dressmaker's.  He  did  not  mention 
that,  however. 

Delaney  was  gazing  after  Rita.     Now  he  spoke. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  almost  as  if  talking  to  himself, 
"it's  beautiful." 

Mrs.  Fernis  had  evidently  gathered  that  praise 
from  Delaney  was  praise  indeed,  for  when  Rita  re 
turned  she  said  to  her,  "Mr.  Delaney  has  been  ad 
miring  your  dress." 

"Really?"     She  looked  at  him.     "Have  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then/'  she  said  half  jestingly,  "this  is  a  red- 
letter  day  for  me.  I  had  about  abandoned  hope  of 
ever  extorting  a  compliment  from  you." 

The  young  man  flushed  and  looked  confused.  Af 
ter  a  moment's  hesitation  he  said  gravely:  "Why, 
surely  you  know  I  admire  you  very  much." 

Though  he  had  spoken  before  all  three  of  them 
and  though  apparently  he  had  made  only  a  conven 
tional  remark,  Parrish  had  a  curious  sense  of  having 
overheard  something  he  was  not  meant  to  hear.  He 
felt  a  little  bit  embarrassed;  and  so,  evidently,  did 


230  RITA  COVENTRY 

Mrs.  Fernis,  for  with  the  manner  of  one  who  has  by 
accident  intruded,  she  turned  to  him,  saying:  "I'm 
simply  famished,  aren't  you?  Let's  go  and  get  some 
supper." 

As  they  moved  together  toward  the  dining  room 
she  asked: 

"Doesn't  he  strike  you  as  being  a  very  singular 
young  man?" 

For  once  Parrish  found  himself  in  full  accord  with 
her. 

"He  strikes  me  as  being  all  of  that,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  PER  supper,  when  all  were  in  the  drawing 
room  again,  Delaney  played  a  suite  of  three 
compositions  called  "In  a  Picture  Gallery," 
which  Rita  announced  he  had  just  completed.  In  it 
he  attempted  a  musical  expression  of  the  emotions 
created  by  three  paintings.  The  first  represented 
one  of  Monet's  canvases — water  lilies  in  the  painter's 
garden  at  Giverny;  the  second  a  portrait  by  Whistler, 
the  third  a  Spanish  market  place  by  Ernest  Lawson. 
The  music,  like  the  paintings  portrayed,  was  im 
pressionistic,  and  Parrish,  quickly  deciding  that  he 
did  not  think  much  of  it,  entertained  himself,  while 
Delaney  played,  by  looking  about  the  room,  observ 
ing  in  more  detail  the  heterogeneousness  of  its  con 
tents.  Almost  in  a  single  glance  he  saw  an  an 
cient  Spanish  desk,  tall  and  bulky,  studded  with 
natfs  and  strapped  with  ornamental  ironwork;  a 
Chinese  cabinet  of  red  lacquer;  and  another  cabinet 
of  buhl.  A  semicircular  Heppelwhite  table  stood 
against  the  wall  between  the  French  windows,  and  in 
the  next  wall  space  a  Korean  chest  of  dark  polished 
wood,  heavily  bound  with  brass.  The  massive  table 
backed  against  the  blue  velvet  couch  at  the  centre  of 
the  room  was  an  old  Italian  piece,  and  upon  it  were 

231 


2 32  RITA  COVENTRY 

two  lamps  made  from  Chinese  bowls;  but  the  several 
tall  standing  lamps  of  carved  and  gilded  wood  were 
Florentine.  He  noted  also  a  light  Sheraton  sofa, 
French  and  American  chairs  of  several  different  eras, 
and  a  stiff  Italian  throne  and  footstool  covered  with 
old  velvet  and  embroidered  with  the  arms  of  the 
Borghese. 

Over  the  finely  carved  marble  mantelpiece  hung  a 
full-length  portrait  of  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
sweepingly  painted  and  very  strong  in  colour,  and 
elsewhere  on  the  walls  were  a  Flemish  tapestry,  a 
florid,  Rubens-like  canvas  depicting  nymphs  sur 
prised  by  a  faun,  an  old  Italian  mirror  with  a  mas 
sive  gilded  frame,  the  brocaded  robe  of  a  Noh  dan 
cer,  and  several  modern  American  landscapes. 

His  cataloging  of  the  museumlike  collection 
stopped  with  Delaney's  playing,  and  he  was  aston 
ished  when  the  musicians  gathered  around  the  young 
composer  and  congratulated  him  with  an  enthusiasm 
apparently  quite  genuine. 

Rita  seemed  much  pleased. 

"Now  let  me  sing  you  one  of  his  new  songs,"  she 
said,  and  immediately  the  room  became  quiet. 

Parrish  liked  the  song  better  than  the  piano  com 
position;  it  had  a  melody,  and  the  words — an  old 
poem  by  Samuel  Lover — were  humorous : 

"Oh,  'tis  time  I  should  talk  to  your  mother, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I; 
"Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  mother,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry 


RITA  COVENTRY  233 

and  after  a  rejection  by  Mary  of  a  like  suggestion  in 
regard  to  her  father: 

"Then  how  shall  I  get  you,  my  jewel  ? 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I; 
"If  your  father  and  mother's  so  cruel, 

Most  surely  I'll  die  !  " 
"Oh,  never  say  die,  dear," says  Mary; 

"A  way  now  to  save  you  I  see; 
Since  my  parents  are  both  so  contrary — 

You'd  better  ask  me !  " 

As  an  encore  Rita  sang  Delaney's  arrangement  of 
"  Bonnie  Doon,"  but  Parrish  was  aware  of  the  song 
only  as  a  background  for  his  thoughts. 

So  that  "Sweet  Mary"  song  was  new,  eh?  He  had 
noticed  music  manuscript  on  the  piano,  yet  neither 
of  them  had  used  it.  Rita  knew  the  words  and  mu 
sic  by  heart.  How  new  was  the  song?  How  long 
had  it  taken  her  to  learn  it?  Of  course  she  was  a 
quick  study,  but  just  when  had  she  learned  it?  He 
wished  he  knew  just  when,  and  just  how  long  it  had 
taken.  Delaney  had  come  late;  that  showed  they 
hadn't  rehearsed  this  evening,  anyway.  When, 
then?  Somehow  he  didn't  like  the  idea  of  their  re 
hearsing  there  together,  alone.  The  first  thing  Rita 
knew  Delaney  would  begin  to  misunderstand  her 
interest  in  his  music.  After  all,  he  was  just  a  piano 
tuner;  he  had  no  advantages,  no  breeding.  And  he 
read  the  Russians — the  rotten  Russians! 

He  wondered  if  Delaney  had  been  in  town  ever 
since  that  night  he  had  seen  him  outside  the  opera 


234  RITA  COVENTRY 

house.  It  looked  that  way.  He  had  said  in  At 
lantic  City  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  come  to  New 
York  at  all;  but  he  had  come,  and  now  apparently  he 
was  hanging  around.  Had  the  music  publishers  and 
the  Discaphone  people  advanced  him  money?  Were 
they  in  the  habit  of  advancing  money  to  unknown 
composers?  He  didn't  believe  so.  Young  composers 
were  traditionally  poor;  if  funds  had  been  advanced 
it  must  have  been  because  of  Rita's  influence,  and  it 
was  not  proper  for  a  woman  to  use  her  influence  in 
that  way  for  a  man.  Not  that  sort  of  man,  anyway. 
He  would  have  to  speak  to  her  about  it  to-night, 
when  the  guests  had  gone. 

After  singing,  Rita  summoned  Schoen  to  exhibit 
to  Paldowski,  Fremecourt,  and  some  of  the  others  his 
tricks  at  the  piano  with  an  orange  and  hairbrush, 
and  he  in  turn  was  followed  by  Wildenstein,  who 
played  his  own  elaboration  of  a  Strauss  waltz. 

"He  is  very  vain  of  playing  the  piano  so  well,  in 
addition  to  conducting,"  Mrs.  Fernis  whispered  to 
Parrish.  She  seemed  to  set  great  store  by  these  little 
titbits  of  gossip  about  the  musical  celebrities. 

Already  some  of  the  guests  had  left,  and  now, 
as  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  a  more  general  exodus 
began.  Soon  only  Parrish,  Mrs.  Fernis,  Fremecourt 
and  Delaney  remained.  Fremecourt  was  a  no 
torious  night  owl  and  Mrs.  Fernis  was  almost  as 
notorious  a  hanger-on.  But  why  didn't  Delaney 
go? 

Leaving  the  others  gathered  around  the  piano, 


RITA  COVENTRY  235 

where  Fremecourt  was  humming  "Bonnie  Doon," 
Rita  drew  Parrish  aside. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  in  days,"  she  said,  "and  to 
night  I'd  counted  on  a  little  visit  with  you,  but"- 
she  gave  her  shrug — "you  see  how  it  has  been?" 
She  ran  on:  "Aside  from  that,  I  do  think  the  party 
has  been  a  success,  don't  you?  I  mean,  it's  done 
Delaney  good — -they  liked  him — don't  you  think  so?'' 

"They  seemed  to,"  he  replied  magnanimously. 
"Does  he  expect  to  be  in  New  York  long?" 

"Yes,  he's  really  getting  launched.  Liebmann  is 
publishing  'Bonnie  Doon',  you  know,  and  he  said 
to-night  that  he  would  bring  out  'Sweet  Mary'  and 
'In  a  Picture  Gallery." 

"That's  all  right,"  Parrish  returned,  "but  what 
I'm  wondering  is:  how  can  Delaney  afford  to  stick 
around  New  York  all  this  time?  You  know  in  At 
lantic  City  he  told  us " 

"Oh,  it's  dear  of  you  to  be  worrying  about  that!" 
she  put  in,  laying  her  hand  with  what  seemed  to  be 
an  impulsive  gesture  upon  his  arm,  and  raising  her 
eyes,  warm  with  what  looked  like  gratitude,  to  his. 
"Thanks,  just  the  same,  though— it's  all  been  fixed." 

"So  I  judged,"  said  he. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  it  were  only  sheet  music,"  Rita  con 
tinued.  "There's  the  Discaphone.  There'll  be  lots 
of  money  for  him  in  that  when  he  gets  started.  I'm 
going  to  sing  'Sweet  Mary'  for  them  to-morrow,  and 
next  week  I'm— 

"Of  course,"  he  interrupted,  "you've  done  won- 


236  RITA  COVENTRY 

ders  for  him.  That  goes  without  saying.  If  it 
weren't  for  you  he'd  still  be  going  around  Atlantic 
City  in  his  old  checked  cap — tuning  pianos.  No 
question  about  that.  Probably  all  the  rest  of  his 
life.  But,  Rita,  there's  another  side  of  this  thing, 
and  you— 

She  looked  quickly  at  the  others. 

"Sh-h!"  she  warned.  "Come  over  here."  Again 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  sleeve  she  drew  him  farther 
from  the  group  at  the  piano.  Then  lowering  her 
voice  to  a  confidential  tone:  "There's  something  I 
want  you  to  do  for  me,  dear.  You  can  help  me  a  lot 
if  you  will." 

Her  gaze  was  earnest  and  appealing.     He  nodded. 

"Fremecourt  will  simply  never  go  home,"  she 
whispered,  "nor  Grace  Fernis.  I'm  always  having 
to  send  those  two  away.  I  must  get  them  out  pretty 
soon.  I  have  to  practice  those  songs,  and 

He  broke  in  with:  "You  mean  alone?" 

"No,  of  course  not.     With  Delaney." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Let  me  get  this  right.  You  mean — what  you 
want  me  to  do — you  want  me  to  go — is  that  it— 
and  take  them,  and  leave  you  with  Delaney?" 

She  assented. 

"Oh,  you  do!"  he  said  roughly,  his  rage  mounting. 
"You  do,  do  you?  Well,  you  guess  again!"  She 
looked  at  him  fixedly,  without  speaking,  while  he 
continued  in  a  tone  poisonously  sarcastic:  "No, 
my  dear,  you've  got  it  wrong  this  time!  I'm  not 


RITA  COVENTRY  237 

the  one  who's  going!     It's  your  little  friend  Delaney. 
Do  you  see?    And  what's  more —  His   voice 

was  rising. 

"Don't  make  a  row!"  she  broke  in  sharply. 
"  Don't  you  see  they're  listening!" 

He  glanced  toward  the  piano,  catching  Mrs.  Fer- 
nis's  eyes  fixed  upon  them.  Hastily  she  looked  away. 

"What  do  I  care!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  you  don't 
want  them  to  listen  get  them  out !  There  are  some 
things  you  and  I  are  going  to  settle  right  here,  to 
night.  I'm  going  to  have  a  talk  with  you  now  if  it's 
my  last!" 

"All   right!"   she   flashed,    "on   that    basis— 
And  leaving  him  abruptly  she  moved  toward  the 
others. 

Mrs.  Fernis,  however,  met  her  halfway. 

"Rita,  dear,"  she  announced,  "Fremecourt  and  I 
have  just  been  saying  we  must  go.  It's  getting 
scandalously  late." 

Quickly  Rita  spoke  to  Delaney. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  we'll  have  to  put  off 
practising  the  songs.  Come  to-morrow  morning 
about  ten  o'clock,  will  you?" 

Standing  at  some  distance  from  the  door  Parrish 
exchanged  bows  and  good-nights  with  the  three.  As 
he  watched  Delaney  go  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
trousers  pockets  and  planted  his  feet  more  firmly  on 
the  rug,  trying  half  consciously  to  assume  the  pos 
ture  of  a  host.  It  gave  him  a  sense  of  triumph  to  do 
that. 


238  RITA  COVENTRY 

Ushering  them  out  Rita  pressed  a  push  button 
near  the  door,  and  simultaneously  a  bell  sounded 
faintly  from  a  distant  part  of  the  house.  Parrish 
heard  her  clear  voice  bidding  them  good-night. 
From  where  he  stood  he  could  see  her  leaning  over 
the  balustrade  looking  after  them.  Presently  he 
heard  the  soft  metallic  sound  of  the  front  door 
closing  behind  them. 

Rita  called  down  to  the  butler:  "Pierre!" 

"Mademoiselle?"     He  came  running  up. 

"Laissez  la  lumiere  la-bas."  And  in  English  she 
added:  "Monsieur  will  be  going  presently.  I'll 
ring." 

"Bien,  mademoiselle.  Merci."  He  descended 
toward  the  lower  hall. 

"  If  it  was  as  a  precaution  that  you  told  Pierre  to 
sit  up,"  Parrish  said  with  a  contemptuous  little 
laugh,  "it  was  quite  unnecessary.  I  wish  I  were  the 
kind  of  man  who  can  take  a  woman  and  drag  her 
around  by  the  hair.  It's  what  you  need!  Evidently 
you  know  it,  too!  But  you  can  set  your  mind  at 
rest — you  won't  have  to  ring  for  help." 

She,  too,  laughed. 

"Oh,  you're  Anglo-Saxon,"  she  retorted  lightly, 
"so  I  wasn't  worrying.  It's  a  little  courtesy,  that's 
all.  Doesn't  it  seem  fitting  that  I  should  have  you 
shown  out  with  due  ceremony  when  probably  you'll 
be  leaving  for  the  last  time?" 

The  flippancy  hurt  him  as  no  display  of  anger  could 
have. 


RITA  COVENTRY  239 

"So,"  he  said,  "that's  all  this  whole  thing  has 
meant  to  you,  is  it?"  She  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room;  he  took  a  few  steps  toward  her.  "If  my 
going  doesn't  mean  any  more  than  that  to  you  I 
might  as  well  go  now." 

"  I  was  only  striking  back,"  she  said  quickly. 
"Don't  let's  go  on  like  this.  Let's  sit  down  and 
talk  things  over."  She  crossed,  rang  the  bell  again, 
and  returning  took  a  chair,  indicating  to  him  a  place 
upon  a  near-by  couch,  where  he  sat  in  silence  until 
Pierre  reappeared. 

"You  were  up  late  last  night,"  Rita  said  to  the 
butler.  "  I  will  see  monsieur  to  the  door." 

"  I  thank  mademoiselle."  He  bowed  and  retired. 
Parrish  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  footfalls  on  the 
staircase. 

"Well?"  she  invited. 

"  Do  you  think  there's  no  end  to  what  I  can  stand," 
he  asked  her,  "or  is  it  that  you  just  don't  give  a 
damn?" 

"Certainly  I  'give  a  damn.'  Do  you  think  if  I 
weren't  fond  of  you  I'd  be  here  now?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  are  'fond'  of  me,"  he  returned 
dryly.  "  I  think  one  may  fairly  assume  that  much. 
It  seems  strange  now  that  I  didn't  see,  all  along,  that 
with  you  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  slight  fondness. 
Looking  back,  everything  has  pointed  that  way. 
But  I  just  couldn't  see  it — or  wouldn't.  Naturally, 
I  didn't  want  to  see  it,  caring  for  you  as  I  do.  Oh, 
what  a  fatuous  idiot  I've  been!" 


240  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Caring  for  me  as  you  do?"  she  echoed.  "And 
just  how  much  do  you  think  you  do  care?" 

The  implication  of  doubt  as  to  the  depth  of  his 
feeling  for  a  moment  stupefied  him. 

"If  I  haven't  shown  you,"  he  answered,  "I  guess 
there's  no  way  for  me  to  tell  you  now." 

"But,"  she  demanded  quickly,  "if  a  man  loves  a 
woman  very  deeply  doesn't  he  ask  her  to  marry 
him?" 

Marriage!  Was  that  it,  then?  Was  that  what 
she  had  been  thinking  of  all  this  time?  Here  was 
a  situation !  He  had  never  explained  to  Rita,  as  he 
had  to  Alice,  that  he  was  not  a  marrying  man.  The 
topic  had  never  suggested  itself  and  he  had  never 
thought  of  bringing  it  up.  It  had  not  seemed  nec 
essary.  Rita  was  such  a  different  type.  But  wo 
men  !  You  never  could  tell  about  a  woman ! 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face. 

"You  mean,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  mean  that — 
you — want — me — to  marry — you?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  speaking  quite  as  slowly  as 
he,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  comical  solemnity  which 
he  recognized  for  a  burlesque  of  his  own  expression, 
"  I  don't  mean — anything — of — the — kind." 

He  felt  the  hot  blood  in  his  face. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "then  this  is  just  a  debating  so 
ciety!" 

At  once  she  became  earnest. 

"No,  it's  not,"  she  answered,  "and  I  shouldn't 
have  done  that.  I  can  see  how  my  question  about 


RITA  COVENTRY  241 

marriage  misled  you.  I  asked  it  because  I  wanted 
to  show  you  that  you  aren't  so  deeply  in  love  with 
me  as  you  may  have  thought  yourself." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  show  me  anything  of  the  kind," 
said  he.  "The  reason  I've  not  asked  you  to  marry 
me  is  the  same  reason  I've  not  asked  anybody  else. 
I  intend  to  remain  a  bachelor.  I've  never  intended 
to  marry." 

At  that  she  smiled  a  little. 

"There,  at  all  events,"  she  told  him,  "we  are  per 
fectly  in  accord.  I  don't  blame  you  for  wanting  to 
remain  a  bachelor.  I  wouldn't  marry  the  most  fas 
cinating  man  alive.  In  my  case,  of  course,  it  is  more 
than  just  an  inclination.  Opera  singers  ought  not 
to  marry — the  women,  anyway.  You  can't  serve 
God  and  mammon,  and  you  can't  serve  your  art  and 
hot  rolls  for  breakfast." 

"A  lot  of  them  are  married,  though,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  and  I  know  just  two  who  are  really  happy. 
They're  the  exceptions  that  prove  the  rule.  But 
look  at  Prenslauer — her  career  is  ruined;  she  lost  her 
voice  when  she  had  her  last  baby.  And  most  of  the 
others  have  either  got  divorces  or  accepted  their 
husbands'  love  affairs." 

There  had  been  growing  upon  him  a  disturbing 
sense  of  having  been  led,  against  his  will,  into  an  ab 
stract  discussion.  He  had  not  stayed  here  to  talk 
of  Prenslauer's  baby  or  the  troubles  of  singers  with 
their  husbands. 

"This  is  all  very  interesting,"  he  said,  rising  and 


242  RITA  COVENTRY 

taking  a  few  restless  steps,  "but  it's  not  getting  us 
anywhere." 

"Well,  then,"  she  replied  amiably  enough,  "what 
is  it  you  want?" 

He  stopped  walking  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"  I  want  to  know  exactly  where  I  stand  with  you," 
said  he. 

Her  eyes  met  his. 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  wondering,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  know?" 

"  I  thought  I  knew,  but— 

"Evidently!"  he  put  in. 

" — but  there's  such  a  difference  between  loving 
and  being  in  love." 

"Yes,"  he  retorted,  "and  there's  a  difference  be 
tween  loving  and  hating!  I  ought  to  know!  But 
that  isn't  getting  us  anywhere  either." 

"Being  in  love  gets  me  somewhere,"  she  insisted. 
"  If  one  is  not  in  love  life  is  empty  as  an  unfurnished 
house.  I  don't  believe  anybody  who  is  not  in  love  is 
really  happy.  The  day  I  met  you  I  was  lonely— 
you  attracted  me.  I  was  longing  to  be  in  love  again. 
The  day  was  like  spring,  if  you  remember." 

"Do  I!"  he  murmured  with  reminiscent  fervour, 
and  after  a  deep  sigh  resumed:  "Then  what  you 
mean  is — you  were  longing  to  fall  in  love  with  some 
body — and  now  you're  wondering  whether  you  really 
did  or  not." 

"That's  a  crude  way  of  putting  it,"  said  she,  "but 
love  means  more  to  me  than  it  does  to  some  people." 


RITA  COVENTRY  243 

He  seated  himself  near  her,  leaning  forward,  and 
was  about  to  speak  when  in  a  reflective  tone  she  sup 
plemented:  "When  I'm  in  love  I  sing  better." 

The  words  struck  him  like  a  blow. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed  indignantly.  "Talking 
of  love  as  if  it  were  a  gargle!" 

Rita  burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  anyway,"  she  declared,  "I  love  you  for 
that!" 

"But  that  isn't  what  I  want  to  be  loved  for!"  he 
protested.  "And  I  don't  want  intermittent  love- 
one  day  on  a  pinnacle,  next  day  in  the  ditch.  I'm 
worn  out  with  your  eternal  changeableness.  It's 
nearly  killing  me!  This  thing  is  going  to  be  defi 
nitely  settled  to-night!  I'd  rather— 

"There  you  are!"  she  broke  in.  "That's  just  it! 
That's  going  to  help  me  to  explain  to  you.  Do  you 
remember  on  the  way  to  Atlantic  City  you  were 
talking  about  wanting  to  know  all  about  me,  want 
ing  to  make  a  portrait  of  me,  as  you  put  it?  You 
kept  talking  about  getting  the  portrait  finished. 
Well,  what  happens  when  a  portrait  is  finished?  The 
painter  has  learned  all  he  can  about  his  subject.  His 
job  is  done.  The  portrait  is  framed  and  hung  upon  a 
wall" — she  waved  her  hand  toward  her  own  portrait 
above  the  mantelpiece — "to  gather  dust.  And  with 
a  love  affair  it  is  the  same.  It  is  the  development 
that  is  interesting — the  gradual  finding  out.  When 
that  is  over  most  love  affairs  are  done.  Not  great 
ones,  of  course — but  there  aren't  many  great  ones. 


244  RITA  COVENTRY 

"You'd  think,"  she  continued,  "that  almost  any 
one  would  understand  a  thing  like  that,  but  men 
seldom  do.  In  love  they  go  by  instinct,  and  their 
instinct  is  wrong.  They  hunt  love  as  naturalists 
hunt  butterflies.  They  don't  see  the  beauty  of  free 
dom  and  movement.  They  want  to  catch  the  but 
terfly,  run  a  needle  through  it  and  mount  it  on  a  cork 
where  they  can  investigate  it  microscopically.  But 
by  that  time  the  butterfly  is  dead." 

"  If  you  mean  that  a  man  wants  to  be  sure  of 
the  woman  he  loves,"  said  Parrish,  "of  course  he 
does!  That's  just  the  point — I've  never  been  sure  of 
you.  I  guess  there  must  be  a  hole  in  my  butterfly 
net!" 

"Or  perhaps  the  mesh  isn't  fine  enough,"  said 
she,  smiling. 

At  that  he  became  angry  again. 

"Oh,  to  hell  with  this  butterfly  talk!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Generalities!  What  I  want  to  know  is 
—is  there  any  use  in  my  trying  to  go  on,  or  am  I 
through?" 

"And  that's  what  I've  been  endeavouring  to  tell 
you,"  she  gave  him  back.  "I  know  you  want  to 
pin  me  down,  and  I  won't  be  pinned  down.  Love 
isn't  an  exact  science;  it's  a  fine  art."  And  before 
he  could  break  in  she  added:  "And  to  be  entirely 
frank — if  you  want  me  to  be  frank— 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  urged. 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  an  artist.  In  love, 
at  least,  you  lack  the  light  touch." 


RITA  COVENTRY  245 

Again  he  felt  an  impact  as  of  a  heavy  fist.  Of  all 
conceivable  charges,  that  was  the  last  he  had  ever 
expected  to  hear  made  against  him.  And  by  a  wo 
man!  She  had  the  effrontery  to  say  he  lacked  the 
light  touch  in  love ! — he,  to  whom  men  friends  had  so 
often  come  for  advice  in  these  matters;  who  had  al 
ways  handled  situations  of  this  kind  so  deftly;  who, 
without  being  merciless,  managed  women;  who,  in 
his  love  affairs,  had  with  invariable  skill  charted  his 
course  between  the  Scylla  of  loneliness  and  the  Cha- 
rybdis  of  responsibility!  Preposterous!  She  was 
deliberately  trying  to  confuse  him.  But  she  couldn't 
do  it!  He  knew  what  had  caused  all  the  trouble. 
He  had  been  feeling  it  all  along,  and  now  somehow 
he  knew  it.  And  he  would  tell  her,  too! 

"It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  a  light  touch,"  he 
said.  "It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  me.  It's 
Delaney!  Ever  since  you  first  saw  that  whelp 
you've  been  different!" 

"Well,"  she  returned,  unperturbed,  "what  have 
you  got  against  Delaney?" 

"  I  hadn't  planned  to  stay  long  enough  to  tell 
you,"  he  answered  bitterly,  "but  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing  I've  got  against  him:  he's  not  a  gentleman." 

"Perhaps  not — as  you  mean  it,"  she  conceded 
without  rancour.  "I  guess  at  that  rate  I'm  not  a 
lady,  either.  But  Delaney  is  a  good  deal  more  than 
a  gentleman.  He's  an  artist." 

"Am  I  to  infer  that  an  artist  cannot  be  a  gentle 
man?"  His  tone  was  triumphant. 


246  RITA  COVENTRY 

"It  has  been  known  to  happen,"  said  she  laconi 
cally. 

"Anyway,  his  being  an  artist  can  hardly  make  him 
a  novelty  to  you,"  he  said.  "Certainly  you  know 
plenty  of  them.  And  as  an  artist  he's  not  in  your 
class." 

"There  you're  wrong,"  she  answered.  "He  is 
more  truly  an  artist  than  I  am.  In  the  first  place,  he 
creates  instead  of  reproducing;  and  in  the  second,  he 
loves  music  purely  for  itself,  while  I  love  it  partly  for 
what  it  can  do  for  me." 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "granted  you  admire  him.  But 
you  don't  have  to  get  sentimental  about  him,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't  have  to,  and  I  don't  say  I  am  senti 
mental  about  him;  but  if  one  must  analyze,  it  might 
be  interesting  to  have  a  man  like  that  care  for  one 
even  more  than  for  his  music." 

"Yes,  and  you've  been  trying  to  make  him  care!" 
he  charged. 

"If  I  have,  the  effort  has  not  been  highly  suc 
cessful." 

"You  just  fall  in  love  with  him,"  he  prophesied 
vindictively,  "and  you'll  get  yours!  He's  a  lot 
younger  than  you  are.  You  can't  hold  him." 

"I'm  a  good  gambler." 

"Maybe  you  are,"  he  retorted,  "but  if  you  can 
hold  him  it  will  be  the  first  case  of  that  kind  I've 
run  across.  I've  seen  dozens  of  them — where  the 
woman  was  older— and  I've  never  known  it  to  fail. 
In  the  end  he'll  fall  in  love  with  some  little  girl  young 


RITA  COVENTRY  247 

enough  to  be  your  daughter,  and  where  will  you  be 
then?" 

"Playing  tragic  roles  as  I  never  did  before.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  that  sort  of  bump  would  be  good 
for  me." 

He  sank  back  on  the  couch,  his  eyes  staring  un 
seeing  across  the  room,  his  mind  filled  with  a  whirl 
ing  misery.  Presently  she  stirred  a  little  in  her  chair, 
and  he  became  aware  of  her  again.  She  did  look 
younger  in  that  dress — almost  girlish — grotesquely 
girlish  for  one  capable  of  such  a  shocking  stream  of 
bizarre  sophistications. 

Slowly  he  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

"Just  like  surgery — this — for — me,"  he  said,  and 
smiled. 

And  as  he  smiled  the  dryness  of  his  lips  against  his 
teeth  was  painful.  His  whole  mouth  was  dry. 
When  he  opened  it  again  to  speak  his  tongue  made  a 
little  clicking  sound  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
which  vaguely  irritated  him. 

"Diagnosis — that's  what  I  wanted.  Now  I  know. 
It's  better  to  know.  Well,  I'm  ready  to  be  wheeled 
out." 

With  that  he  swung  around  and  made  his  way 
toward  the  door  on  legs  that  felt  weak  and  numb. 

He  heard  her  make  a  little  sound  of  pity — he 
didn't  want  her  pity!  Then  her  swift  steps  coming 
after  him — he  didn't  want  her  following  him! 

"Don't  come,"  he  said  without  turning.  "I'll 
let  myself  out." 


248  RITA  COVENTRY 

But  she  kept  coming.  He  heard  her  behind  him 
on  the  stairs.  In  the  lower  hall  he  almost  ran  to  get 
his  coat  from  the  chest  where  it  was  lying.  He  did 
not  pause  to  put  it  on,  but  threw  it  over  his  arm  and, 
seizing  his  hat  and  cane,  made  for  the  door. 

She  was  back  of  him;  he  felt  her  pulling  at  his 
coat.  "Let  me  help  you  with  it,"  he  heard  her 
say.  Why  didn't  she  stay  upstairs  as  he  told  her 
to?  She  ought  to  know  he  wouldn't  want  her  look 
ing  at  him  when  he  was  like  this! 

As  he  reached  for  the  doorknob  she  laid  a  detain 
ing  hand  upon  his  outstretched  arm.  He  dropped 
his  arm  abruptly  and  turned  upon  her. 

"You  leave  me  alone!"  he  heard  himself  say,  and 
as  she  stepped  back,  looking  startled,  he  realized 
that  he  had  made  a  threatening  gesture  with  his 
cane. 

She  was  saying  something  as  he  shut  the  door  be 
hind  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

FOR  the  next  few  days  Parrish  was  like  a  man 
drugged.      He  felt  light-headed,   and   as   he 
went   about   was   continually   on   his    guard 
against  revealing  it.     But  he  made  the  office  every 
day.    Several  times  he  was  aware  of  Bement's  sur 
reptitious  scrutiny,  and  it  annoyed  him.     What  if  he 
was   not   looking   very   well?    Was   that   anybody 
else's  business  as  long  as  he  attended  to  his  job? 

He  was  a  little  bit  surprised  that  the  pain  was 
not  greater.  Though  incessant,  it  was  dull.  Per 
haps  it  would  be  worse  when  this  drugged  feeling 
wore  off.  His  chief  sensation  was  that  of  being 
crippled  and  not  yet  accustomed  to  it;  of  greatly 
missing  some  important  portion  of  his  body,  which 
had  been  removed.  His  heart  still  was  inside  him, 
he  could  feel  it  pounding  heavily;  but  he  could  not 
eat,  and  there  were  times  when  he  feared  to  breathe 
deeply,  lest  it  bring  on  the  sharp  pain. 

But  presently  there  came  a  day  when  he  began  to 
understand  a  little  and,  as  recuperation  advanced, 
to  gather  comfort  from  a  wan  philosophy. 

Well,  at  all  events,  it  was  over.  This  surgery  had 
from  the  first  been  inevitable.  Ultimately,  no  doubt, 
he  would  be  better  for  it;  in  one  way,  even,  he  was 

249 


25o  RITA  COVENTRY 

better  now — the  uncertainty  was  gone;  at  last  he  could 
sleep. 

As  his  mind  cleared  he  found  himself  thinking  of 
Alice.  Not  once  during  what  now  seemed  to  him 
to  have  been  a  period  of  illness  through  which  he  had 
passed,  had  he  heard  from  her;  and  now  instead  of 
attributing  her  silence  to  the  condition  of  her  sister's 
health,  or  to  annoyance  with  him  because  he  had  so 
long  delayed  writing  to  her,  he  began  to  be  honest 
with  himself  and  to  search  for  deeper  causes. 

Could  she  have  heard  some  rumour  of  what  had 
been  going  on?  At  first  that  seemed  to  him  hardly 
probable.  She  was  far  away,  out  of  touch  with  New 
York  and  unacquainted  with  the  people  with  whom 
he  had  lately  been  associating.  And  even  those 
people,  he  liked  to  think,  had  for  the  most  part  been 
unaware  of  his  affair  with  Rita.  Busini  had  evi 
dently  suspected  something,  and  perhaps  the  ubiqui 
tous  Mrs.  Fernis  had  also,  but  he  hardly  thought 
there  had  been  general  gossip.  Of  course  there  was 
Atlantic  City,  but  on  that  trip  he  had  seen  no  one  he 
knew.  The  people  he  knew  would  not  be  likely  to 
go  to  that  hotel. 

The  only  friend  of  Alice's  he  had  met  since  she  left 
was  Clara  Proctor — at  the  Midnight  Frolic — and 
then  he  had  been  with  Bement.  Clara,  to  be  sure, 
had  all  but  cut  him.  That  still  puzzled  him  a  little. 
But  he  and  Clara  never  had  liked  each  other;  she 
was  always  trying  to  come  between  him  and  Alice; — 
trying  to  inoculate  Alice  with  her  own  cynicism  con- 


RITA  COVENTRY  251 

cerning  men,  advising  her  to  drop  him  because  he 
didn't  mean  to  marry. 

As  he  thought  of  that,  there  came  to  him  the  first 
glimmer  of  mirth — grim  mirth — that  he  had  known 
since  Rita's  door  closed  behind  him.  He  had  dis 
liked  Clara  for  interfering,  but  she  was  right:  Alice 
should  have  dropped  him;  from  a  strategic  stand 
point  it  would  have  been  the  wise  thing  to  do.  But 
Alice  hadn't  any  strategy. 

Strategy  was  not  very  well  distributed  among  wo 
men:  some  had  none;  others  too  much.  Real  fine 
ness  didn't  count  as  it  ought  to  in  relations  between 
men  and  women.  Fine  women,  like  Alice,  lacking 
strategy  or  scorning  to  use  it,  so  often  lost  out,  while 
women  who  were  cold-hearted  and  unscrupulous 
got  everything  their  own  way.  Perhaps  the  fine 
ones  could  get  some  satisfaction  out  of  knowing  they 
were  square  and  honest,  but  that  seemed  cold  com 
fort. 

Women!  Why  were  people  always  generalizing 
about  women?  Such  a  stupid  thing  to  do !  General 
izations  were  stupid  anyway.  How  true  the  epigram 
of  the  witty  Frenchman  who  declared:  "All  generali 
zations  are  false — including  this  one!"  When  men 
generalized  about  women  they  were  in  reality  de 
scribing  not  women,  but  their  own  reactions  to  some 
certain  woman.  If  a  man  proclaimed  women  selfish, 
heartless,  cruel,  it  was  a  safe  conclusion  that  the  wo 
man  he  cared  for  had  ill-used  him;  while  if,  upon  the 
other  hand,  according  to  him  they  were  patient, 


252  RITA  COVENTRY 

loving,  and  forgiving,  the  woman  he  cared  for  was 
generous  and  kind. 

During  these  days  he  reflected  a  great  deal  about 
women. 

How  helpless  the  average  man  against  a  woman 
pretty  and  unscrupulous!  To  a  man  it  was  well- 
nigh  inconceivable  that  a  woman's  soul  might  not  be 
so  lovely  as  her  face— that  is,  until  she  proved  it  to 
him.  Given  a  beautiful  face  his  romantic  fancy 
would  endow  her  with  every  admirable  and  endearing 
quality  of  character.  Strange,  too,  that  beauty  and 
charm — or  lure — qualities  having  not  the  slightest 
bearing  upon  worth— should  be  the  two  great  mag 
nets  of  the  love  attraction.  That  meant  that  the 
qualities  to  attract  were  not  the  qualities  to  hold 
love.  Something  wrong  there.  If  things  were  right 
with  love,  men  would,  from  the  beginning,  be  drawn 
to  women  by  their  sweetness,  their  fair-mindedness, 
their  capability,  their  loyalty,  in  short,  their  fineness, 
instead  of  learning  later  to  appreciate  those  qualities 
if  lucky  enough  to  find  them.  Yet  under  the  dis 
torted  laws  governing  the  love  attraction  all  those 
qualities — the  qualities  of  a  good  wife — might  often 
be  found  in  women  who,  for  lack  of  attributes  super 
ficially  attractive,  were  almost  certainly  predestined 
to  a  state  of  spinsterhood. 

The  whole  thing  was  a  mess. 

Take  his  own  case:  How  horrible  to  realize  that 
he  had  so  easily  been  drawn  away  from  what  was 
beautiful  and  fine  by  what  was  beautiful  but  not  fine; 


RITA  COVENTRY  253 

how  horrible  that  he  could  cast  aside  Alice's  unselfish, 
unchanging  love,  for  something  hot,  spasmodic, 
spurious;  and  how  horrible  that  the  loss  of  that  brief 
meretricious  love  could  plunge  him  into  a  wretched 
state  in  which,  though  lonely,  he  avoided  people, 
returning  each  evening  to  his  apartment  like  a  sick 
dog  crawling  into  his  kennel. 

Sitting  by  the  fire  in  his  living  room  one  night, 
unable  to  interest  himself  in  books  or  magazines,  he 
tried  to  analyze  his  situation.  Rita's  photograph 
still  stood  upon  the  mantelpiece;  for  several  days  its 
presence  there  had  been  disturbing  him  but,  as  if  for 
want  of  energy  to  move  it,  he  had  allowed  it  to  re 
main.  There,  at  all  events,  was  something  he  was 
able  to  correct.  He  rose,  took  down  the  picture,  and 
removed  it  from  the  silver  frame. 

His  wretchedness  was  not  a  wretchedness  of  long 
ing  for  Rita.  He  treasured  no  dream,  however 
shadowy,  of  a  renewal.  He  had  put  her — or  she  had 
put  herself- — definitely  out  of  his  life.  Her  destruc 
tion  of  his  illusions,  her  blows  upon  his  self-respect, 
made  him  detest  her.  If  in  the  loss  of  her  he  missed 
anything  it  was  a  Rita  he  had  imagined,  a  Rita  who 
did  not  exist. 

He  looked  at  the  photograph  in  his  hands.  She 
was  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  a  blue-ribbon  cob 
exhibiting  its  gaits  at  a  horse  show.  Proud,  sleek, 
and  sure,  self-confident,  self-centred,  self-satisfied,  the 
expression  of  her  face,  in  the  picture,  irritated  him. 

Suddenly,  violently,  almost  as  if  slashing  at  her,  he 


254  RITA  COVENTRY 

tore  the  photograph.  He  had  aimed  at  the  face, 
but  by  a  narrow  margin  missed  it.  Again  he  tore, 
and  this  time  the  paper  broke  in  a  ragged  line  passing 
through  one  eye,  across  the  nose  and  down  the  cheek. 
He  threw  the  bits  of  the  torn  likeness  at  the  fire,  but 
they  hit  the  screen  and  fell  back  upon  the  hearth. 
It  was  not  unpleasant  to  scuff  them  into  the  hot 
ashes  with  the  sole  of  his  shoe.  The  silver  frame  he 
put  away; — he  could  give  it  to  the  cleaning  woman. 

But  now  in  this  morass  of  misery  he  did  long  for 
Alice,  and  his  longing  for  her  was  like  his  longing  for 
his  mother  when  as  a  boy  he  became  ill  away  from 
home.  There  had  always  been  that  mother  quality 
in  Alice,  that  eternal  watchfulness  for  his  well-being; 
she  was  always  thinking  of  him,  worrying  about  him, 
afraid  he  would  get  tired  or  take  cold.  He  thought 
with  a  strong  nostalgia  of  the  big  comfortable  chair 
in  her  apartment  and  the  smoker's  stand  beside  it: 
his  chair,  his  stand,  she  called  them. 

And  their  tastes  were  so  congenial — she  always 
wanted  to  do  what  he  wanted  to;  in  restaurants  she 
was  delighted  with  what  he  ordered,  and  after  dinner 
it  was  for  him  to  decide  what  they  should  do — 
whether  they  should  go  to  the  theatre  or  back  to  her 
apartment,  where  he  could  be  comfortable  and  smoke 
while  they  talked. 

How  he  wished  she  were  at  her  apartment  now! 
It  would  be  so  comforting  to  go  to  her;  she  was  so 
understanding  when  one  was  downhearted.  When 
the  market  was  at  its  worst,  after  the  war,  and  brok- 


RITA  COVENTRY  255 

erage  houses  were  failing,  he  could  always  get  en 
couragement  from  her.  And  that  time  he  had  the 
grippe — she  came  to  see  him  every  day.  How  well 
he  remembered  the  way  she  used  to  fix  his  pillows! 
She  did  it  better  than  the  nurse. 

Trifling  things  always  pleased  her  so.  When  he 
gave  her  some  little  present  she  did  not  thank  him 
only  once;  with  her  a  present  seemed  to  renew  itself 
over  and  over,  and  she  would  speak  of  it  again  and 
again.  She  remembered  everything:  not  only  birth 
days  but  the  most  trifling  anniversaries. 

That  reminded  him — he  had  been  meaning  to  get 
a  present  for  her  birthday.  Her  birthday  would  be 
coming  pretty  soon.  Let's  see,  when  was  it?  It 
came  in  the  middle  of  March — March  fourteenth. 
And  to-day  was — March  fourteenth!  Her  birthday 
was  to-day — and  to-day  was  nearly  over! 

He  hastened  to  the  telephone  and  put  in  a  call  for 
Alice.  It  was  only  a  little  after  ten  o'clock.  That 
meant  nine  in  Cleveland.  How  fortunate,  how  very 
fortunate,  that  he  had  thought  of  it  in  time! 

While  waiting  in  the  library  for  the  call  to  be  put 
through  he  paced  the  rug,  following  the  pattern  with 
his  feet.  There  was  a  place  in  the  corner  where  he 
had  to  take  a  short  step  or  else  go  over  into  the  bor 
der.  In  the  back  of  his  mind  was  an  incoherent  wish 
that  the  rug  had  been  a  little  shorter  or  a  little 
longer,  to  match  the  length  of  his  stride. 

The  knowledge  that  he  was  so  soon  to  hear  her 
voice  made  him  happy  in  spite  of  his  apprehension 


256  RITA  COVENTRY 

as  to  what  her  attitude  would  be.  Again  he  specu 
lated  on  the  cause  of  her  silence.  Suppose  she  had  in 
some  way  found  out  about  Rita — what  would  she  say, 
and  what  could  he  say?  However,  he  did  not  believe 
she  had  found  out.  It  seemed  far  more  likely  that 
she  was  hurt  by  his  neglect.  But  he  wished  he  knew. 
It  would  be  so  much  easier  to  commence  talking  with 
her  if  he  knew.  Why  didn't  the  operator  get  her? 
Long-distance  service  ought  to  be  prompt  at  this 
time  of  night.  He  was  moving  toward  the  telephone 
with  the  intention  of  asking  for  a  report  on  his  call, 
when  the  bell  began  to  ring. 

"All  ready  with  Cleveland,"  said  the  operator. 

"Hello— hello— hello,"  he  called. 

"Just  a  minute,  please." 

He  waited.  There  came  a  little  click  and  a  soft 
electric  hum  upon  the  wire. 

"Hello,"  he  said  again. 

Then  he  heard  Alice's  voice,  faint  and  far  away. 

"Hello — Alice.  This  is  Dick."  He  paused;  then 
as  she  did  not  answer  he  asked,  "Can  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  called  up  to  wish  you  a  happy  birthday.  I 
couldn't  get  your  present  off  to  you  in  time.  I  was 
wondering  whether  I'd  better  send  it  or  hold  it  here 
until  you  get  back.  I  suppose  you  will  be  coming 
back  pretty  soon,  won't  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Why  not?     Is  your  sister  no  better?" 

"She's  much  better,  thank  you." 


RITA  COVENTRY  257 

"Is  she  back  from  Lake  Placid  yet?" 

"We  expect  her  next  week." 

"That's  fine!  And  after  that  you'll  be  coming 
home?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  again,  and  there  was 
something  ominous  to  him  about  the  repetition. 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  he  persisted.  "You  must 
have  some  idea  when  you'll  be  coming." 

"  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind." 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "I  miss  you  awfully.  You 
haven't  even  written  to  me.  I  know  it's  my  fault — 
I  ought  to  have  written  to  you — but  I  was  horribly 
busy  just  after  you  went  away;  I  kept  putting  off 
writing  from  day  to  day,  and  after  a  while  I  felt  so 
guilty  about  it  I  didn't  know  how  to  begin.  And  I 
haven't  been  feeling  well.  And  last  week  I  was 
called  on  the  jury — I  had  a  devil  of  a  time  getting  off. 
I've  been  sitting  here  alone  all  evening,  thinking 
about  you.  Came  home  tired  out.  Last  night  I 
stayed  at  home,  too — and  the  night  before — thinking 
about  you.  I'd  give  anything  to  see  you.  I  do 
wish  you  were  back." 

He  was  not  satisfied  with  what  he  had  been  saying; 
he  felt  that  it  did  not  sound  genuine;  he  was  throw 
ing  in  words  desperately,  as  if  they  had  been  bags 
of  sand  intended  to  stop  leaks  in  a  dike.  Strangely, 
the  flood  he  feared  was  not  a  flood  of  reproaches  but 
of  silence;  and  now  as  he  waited,  giving  her  a  chance 
to  answer,  the  silence  began  seeping  through  again, 
forcing  him  to  throw  in  more  words. 


258  RITA  COVENTRY 

"Hello!    Alice!" 

"Yes?" 

He  hastened  on:  "I'm  wretched  about  the  way 
I've  treated  you!  I  know  I've  made  you  unhappy, 
and  that  makes  me  unhappy.  Can't  you  say  some 
thing  to  comfort  me?" 

Again  that  awful  silence. 

"Alice!     Are  you  there?" 

"Yes." 

Some  quality  in  her  voice — he  did  not  know  just 
what — told  him  now  that  she  was  weeping. 

"Can't  you  just  say  something  to  me?" 

The  electric  singing  of  the  wire  suddenly  stopped. 

"Alice!" 

No  answer. 

He  worked  the  hook  up  and  down  and  when  the 
operator  responded  made  nervous  inquiries  of  her. 

"Hold  the  wire,  please."  A  curious  little  sound 
came  through  the  receiver,  telling  him  that  the  oper 
ator,  like  a  disembodied  spirit,  was  flying  through 
the  night  to  Cleveland  to  find  out  what  was  wrong; 
a  moment  later  he  heard  her  disembodied  voice. 

"The  party  disconnected,"  she  informed  him. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  call  Alice  again,  but  he 
abandoned  the  thought;  there  was  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  further  communication  with  her  by 
telephone  would  be  more  satisfactory  than  the  one 
sided  conversation  just  ended. 

She  had  been  crying;  he  was  almost  certain  of  it. 
Was  it  because  she  did  not  wish  him  to  detect  it  that 


RITA  COVENTRY  259 

she  had  hung  up  the  receiver — or  was  this  a  dismissal? 
Her  silences,  her  short  replies,  lent  colour  to  the 
latter  theory.  She  had  never  treated  him  like  that 
before.  If  only  she  had  reproached  him  instead  of 
being  silent,  that  would  have  shown  him  where  he 
stood;  but  as  things  were,  he  knew  no  more  than  if 
he  had  not  called  her  up  at  all. 

What  if  he  had  lost  her!  Now  for  the  first  time 
he  faced  that  possibility.  He  had  relied  upon  her 
gentleness,  her  devotion,  her  forgiveness.  Had  he 
relied  too  much?  Ruthlessly  he  had  traded  on 
her  finest  qualities,  treating  her  as  he  would  not 
have  dared  to  treat  a  woman  of  coarser  fibre.  His 
ethics  had  been  the  ethics  of  the  jungle.  He  had 
been  considerate  of  Rita  because  he  was  afraid  of 
her,  and  inconsiderate  of  Alice  because  of  her  he  was 
not  afraid. 

Then,  like  a  thunderbolt,  the  thought  struck  him 
that  be  had  treated  Alice  as  Rita  bad  treated  bim! 

Would  he  forgive  Rita?     Never! 

Would  Alice  forgive  him?  She  must  forgive  him! 
She  must !  He  must  find  some  way  to  make  her  for 
give  him.  He  deserved  to  lose  her,  but  he  could  not 
bear  to. 

In  the  past  he  had  been  more  aware  of  her  need  of 
him  than  of  his  need  of  her,  but  now  their  positions 
were  reversed.  He  could  not  go  on  without  her.  He 
must  win  her  back.  He  must  see  her.  He  would  go 
at  once  to  Cleveland. 

Consulting  a  time-table   he  found    that   a  train 


260  RITA  COVENTRY 

left  for  Buffalo  at  eleven-ten.  He  could  just  make  it. 
By  changing  cars  at  Buffalo  to-morrow  morning  he 
could  reach  Cleveland  in  the  early  afternoon. 

Through  the  pantry  door  he  shouted  to  Ito,  then 
ran  to  his  own  room  and  began  collecting  the  things 
he  wanted  packed.  When  the  servant  came  he  left 
the  filling  of  the  bag  to  him  and  telephoned  for  a 
taxi.  In  fifteen  minutes  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
station ;  in  half  an  hour  he  was  on  the  train ;  and  when 
a  little  later  he  retired  for  the  night  the  train  was 
roaring  along  beside  the  Hudson  River.  But  he 
could  not  see  the  river.  There  are  no  windows  in  an 
upper  berth. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ALIGHT  snow  was  falling  when   Parrish  ar 
rived  in  Cleveland  next  afternoon,  but  when, 
after  a  brief  pause  at  a  hotel,  he  took  a  taxi- 
cab  to  drive  to  Alice's,  there  was  only  dampness  on 
the  pavements  where  the  snow  had  been. 

Having  passed  through  a  busy  district  of  retail 
shops,  theatres,  and  office  buildings,  where  it  seemed 
to  him  pedestrians  were  too  much  given  to  crossing 
the  streets  recklessly  in  the  middle  of  blocks,  they 
came  to  an  "auto  row"  made  up  of  two-  and  three- 
story  buildings  of  brick  and  tile,  with  here  and  there 
a  mansion  of  an  earlier  day  rearing  its  smoke-be 
grimed  bulk  in  futile  defiance  of  the  outward  march 
of  trade.  Then  more  old  houses,  ugly  and  massive, 
some  of  them  well  kept,  telling  of  wealthy  families 
still  holding  on,  others  turned  into  dressmakers' 
establishments,  art  shops,  and  boarding  places. 
Around  some  of  them  was  grass,  and  on  the  grass 
the  snow  had  not  melted,  but  held  in  a  semi-trans 
parent  whitish  glaze. 

A  few  minutes  farther  out,  at  a  trolley  crossing,  was 
a  thriving  centre — a  small  city  within  a  large  one — 
with  banks,  stores,  and  yellow  taxis  clustered  around 
a  railroad  station;  and  after  perhaps  ten  minutes 

261 


262  RITA  COVENTRY 

more,  during  which  the  cab  traversed  a  section  where 
apartment  houses  and  business  buildings  seemed  to 
be  waging  equal  warfare  with  old  houses,  another 
secondary  business  centre,  with  its  crosstown  trolley 
line,  banks,  motion-picture  theatres,  and  shops. 
Then  a  parked  circle  with  a  bronze  statue  and  a  little 
lake  behind  it,  a  boulevard  winding  amid  snow-dusted 
trees  and  shrubbery,  and  presently,  after  a  long  and 
rather  steep  ascent,  fine  heights,  on  which  stood  large 
residences  in  spacious  grounds,  with  here  and  there 
an  apartment  building  sharply  breaking  the  skyline. 
More  winding  along  a  parked  way:  this  one  double 
with  street-cars  running  down  the  middle  and  new 
houses  built  or  building  at  each  side;  and  at  last, 
after  what  was  beginning  to  seem  to  Parrish  a  very 
long  drive,  although  his  watch  told  him  they  had  been 
little  more  than  half  an  hour  on  the  way,  a  right- 
angle  turn  into  an  intersecting  highway  which  a 
street-corner  sign  told  him  was  Willowbrook  Avenue. 
It  was  the  kind  of  street  Alice's  descriptions  had  led 
him  to  expect :  flanked  by  modest  modern  houses.  One 
or  two  of  the  largest  might,  he  thought,  have  cost  as 
much  as  eighteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars,  while 
the  least  of  them  must  have  cost  twelve  thousand. 
The  shrubs  and  trees  in  the  yards  were  young,  and 
on  such  houses  as  were  embellished  with  vines,  the 
loftiest  shoots  did  not  reach  more  than  halfway  to 
the  eaves,  though  there  could  be  no  doubt  that,  like 
the  owners  of  the  houses,  they  were  year  by  year  pro 
gressing  upward  in  the  world.  Inexpensive  cars  stood 


RITA  COVENTRY  263 

at  the  curb,  here  and  there,  along  the  street,  and 
the  lines  of  land  proprietorship  were  marked  off  by 
little  drives  made  of  twin  strips  of  cement,  leading 
back  to  small  garages. 

In  many  front  yards  children  were  at  play  with 
their  sleds,  laughing  and  shouting  as  they  made  the 
most  of  the  thin  coat  of  snow,  and  from  the  sizes  of 
the  children  Parrish  gathered  an  impression  that  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  this  neighbourhood  were 
young. 

The  house  before  which  the  taxi  stopped  was  of 
stucco  and  brown-stained  timber,  low  and  sub 
stantial,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  a  California  bunga 
low,  although  there  were  upper  windows,  indicating 
a  second  story  tucked  away  beneath  the  long  slope 
of  the  roof. 

A  small  boy  and  girl  in  the  front  yard  stopped  play 
ing  and  advanced  a  few  steps  to  inspect  Parrish  as  he 
alighted  from  the  taxi.  Passing  up  the  walk  he 
smiled  at  them,  but  their  big  blue  eyes  remained 
solemn. 

"How  do  you  do,  Georgie?  How  do  you  do, 
Alice?"  he  said,  with  a  mischievous  desire  to  astonish 
them. 

They  did  not  reply,  but  continued  to  follow  him 
with  their  eyes.  The  only  sign  of  their  having  heard 
him  was  given  by  little  Alice,  who  quickly  reached 
up  and  placed  her  small  red-mittened  hand  in  her 
brother's. 

Parrish  ascended  the  steps,  crossed  the  wide  porch 


264  RITA  COVENTRY 

and  rang  the  bell.  Then,  turning,  he  looked  back  at 
the  little  pair.  They  were  still  staring  at  him,  but 
now  Georgie,  taking  courage  from  the  safe  distance 
intervening  between  him  and  the  strange  gentleman, 
became  vocal. 

Nodding  his  head  emphatically,  as  if  in  affirmation 
of  a  fact  almost  unbelievable,  he  declared:  "I  got  a 
puppy.  Name's  Don.  He  can  lick  my  face." 

And  before  Parrish  could  make  a  suitable  comment 
the  high  baby  voice  of  the  little  girl  chimed  a  cor 
roborative  echo:  "He  can  lick  his  face."  Like  her 
brother  she  nodded  as  she  spoke,  widening  her  eyes, 
gravely  bright. 

"Is  his  tongue  rough?"  Parrish  asked. 

"Yes,  it's  rough,"  said  George.  And  "It's  wuff," 
immediately  echoed  Alice. 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  at  this  juncture 
when  a  maid  opened  the  front  door. 

Parrish  asked  for  Alice  and  gave  the  maid  his 
card,  which,  having  no  card  tray,  she  took  in  her 
hand. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  civilly,  opening  the  door 
wider  after  having  looked  at  the  card  as  if  to  see  that 
he  was  not  a  canvasser.  As  he  hung  his  coat  and  hat 
on  the  dark  oak  rack  in  the  hall  he  saw  her,  on  the 
way  upstairs,  inspecting  the  card  again. 

In  the  parlour  he  sat  down  in  a  morris  chair  by  a 
wide  front  window,  and  from  here  he  could  see  the 
children  at  play  out  in  the  yard.  They  were  sweet- 
looking  children,  as  Alice  had  said.  He  felt  grateful 


RITA  COVENTRY  265 

to  them,  because  somehow — he  did  not  quite  know 
how — they  had  made  easier  his  approach  to  the 
house. 

The  room  was  of  good  size  with  dark  woodwork 
and  patternless  gray-green  wall  paper.  The  furni 
ture  was  in  the  mission  style,  of  oak — fumed  oak  he 
believed  it  was  called — and  the  cushions  in  the  chairs 
were  of  brown  leather.  The  best  thing  in  the  room 
was  the  spacious  Khiva  rug,  and  the  only  other  rug 
was  a  black  bearskin,  with  a  mounted  head,  lying 
before  the  fireplace.  Between  the  front  windows, 
near  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  stood  a  massive  table 
with  a  cover  of  soft  leather,  dyed  to  a  maroon  colour, 
and  on  this  was  placed  a  lamp  having  a  verdigris 
metal  base  and  a  translucent  shade  of  glass,  streaked 
green  and  white.  Neatly  arranged  upon  the  table 
within  reach  of  the  morris  chair  were  many  popular 
magazines  and  several  current  novels.  Against  one 
wall  was  an  ebonized  upright  piano  with  a  book  of 
songs  for  little  children  on  the  music  rack,  and  be 
side  the  piano  stood  a  tall  wrought-iron  lamp  with  a 
shade  of  wine-colour  silk.  Aside  from  two  harmless 
landscapes  in  watercolour  there  hung  upon  the  walls 
an  etching  of  Rheims  Cathedral,  a  sepia  print  of  one 
of  Rossetti's  slender  women,  and  at  either  side  of  the 
hall  door  a  figure,  reproduced  in  black  and  white, 
from  Abbey's  mural  decorations  in  the  Boston  Public 
Library — the  cowled  Isaiah,  and  Sir  Galahad  stand 
ing  in  armour  beside  his  horse. 

He  had  ample  time  in  which  to  observe  these  de- 


266  RITA  COVENTRY 

tails,  since  the  maid  was  gone  for  a  long  time.  Out 
side,  the  daylight  was  beginning  to  fade,  and  the 
parlour,  its  windows  shaded  by  the  porch,  was  be 
coming  shadowy.  Overhead  he  could  hear  someone 
moving  about.  He  wondered  if  it  was  Alice  getting 
ready  to  come  down. 

Presently  he  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs.  But  it  was 
not  Alice;  it  was  the  maid  again. 

"Miss  Meldrum  asks  to  be  excused,"  she  an 
nounced. 

"She — she  does?"     He  stood  nonplussed. 

"She's  not  very  well  to-day." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Please  tell  her  I'll 
come  back  this  evening  to  find  out  how  she  is.  You 
might  just  let  her  know  I'm  at  the  Statler." 

Putting  on  his  overcoat  he  wondered  who  it  was 
he  had  heard  moving  about  the  room  overhead.  Of 
course  it  might  have  been  the  maid. 

His  spirits  were  at  zero  as  he  took  his  hat  from  the 
rack.  He  did  not  wish  to  leave  the  house;  it  was  the 
one  place  in  Cleveland  where  he  wished  to  be,  but  he 
could  think  of  no  excuse  for  staying.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  she  would  refuse  to  see  him  after  he  had 
come  all  the  way  out  to  Cleveland,  sleeping  in  an 
upper  berth  and  changing  cars  at  Buffalo  to  get  here 
in  a  hurry?  Surely  she  could  not  be  so  hard  on  him 
as  that!  She  was  so  sweet  and  gentle.  On  the 
other  hand,  though,  he  had  known,  down  in  Virginia, 
many  an  unreconstructed  old  lady,  and  some  young 
ones,  too,  who  were  the  embodiment  of  gentleness 


RITA  COVENTRY  267 

until  Yankees  were  mentioned,  when  they  became 
more  bitter  than  the  most  fiery  of  Confederate  vet 
erans.  That  under  Alice's  tenderness  there  might 
be  an  unrelenting  strain  was  a  possibility  he  had  not 
until  now  faced.  Oh,  she  must  see  him!  She  must! 

As  with  great  reluctance  he  opened  the  front  door 
to  leave  the  house,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
a  stranger  who  was  ascending  the  steps — a  powerfully 
built  man  of  about  his  own  age,  with  ruddy  cheeks 
and  good-humoured  blue  eyes.  Reaching  the  top 
s,tep  the  man  brought  a  key  ring  jingling  from  his 
pocket;  then,  as  the  door  was  already  open,  he  put 
back  his  keys,  and  looking  closely  at  Parrish,  nodded 
pleasantly. 

"If  I'm  not  mistaken,"  he  said  in  a  strong  voice, 
"you're  Mr.  Parrish,  from  New  York." 

"Yes— Mr.  Brooks?" 

"The  same."  His  smile  was  engaging.  "I  had 
to  reach  around  in  my  mind  for  a  minute  to  think 
what  your  last  name  was.  You're  known  as  Dick 
in  this  house." 

Parrish  smiled  back. 

"I  was  having  precisely  the  same  difficulty  with 
you,"  he  said.  "Of  course  Alice  always  speaks  of 
you  as  George." 

The  master  of  the  house  came  in  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him. 

"Take  off  your  overcoat,"  he  said. 

"Thanks.     I  was  just  going." 

"Whereto?" 


268  RITA  COVENTRY 

"  Back  to  the  hotel.  I  came  to  see  Alice,  but  the 
maid  tells  me  she  isn't  very  well.  Thought  I'd  try 
again  this  evening." 

George  had  hung  up  his  ulster. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "she's  had  a  lot  of  headaches 
lately.  That's  why  I  came  home  early."  Then,  as 
Parrish  had  not  moved  to  remove  his  overcoat,  the 
other  hospitably  stripped  the  garment  from  his 
back,  saying:  "Here,  you  don't  want  to  go  yet. 
Come  into  my  den — we'll  have  a  smoke." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  hall  to  a  small  room  even 
more  masculine  in  its  equipment  than  the  parlour. 

Already  Parrish  was  beginning  to  like  this  cordial 
Mid-Westerner  with  his  big  voice,  his  close-cropped, 
wiry,  wavy  hair,  and  his  understanding  eyes.  More 
over,  he  was  grateful  to  him  for  making  it  easy  to 
remain. 

"Hold  on!"  said  George,  stopping  just  inside  the 
door,  "that  must  be  your  taxi  outside?"  And 
when  Parrish  assented  his  host  turned  back  declaring: 
"I'll  send  him  away.  When  you  have  to  go  I'll 
drive  you  down." 

"You're  very  kind,"  Parrish  said,  following  him, 
"but  let  me  send  him  away." 

"Put  your  money  back  in  your  pocket!"  ordered 
George  as  they  raced  together  down  the  walk. 

"No,  I  can't  let  you  pay  for  my  taxi." 

"  Yes,  you  can,  too!  Forget  it !  This  is  my  town." 
He  thrust  money  into  the  driver's  hand  and  dis 
missed  him,  whereafter  they  returned  to  the  house 


RITA  COVENTRY  269 

and  settled  themselves  with  cigars  in  the  lamplight 
of  the  den. 

"When  did  you  get  in?"  George  asked. 

"This  afternoon.  I  was  due  about  two-thirty,  but 
my  train  was  late." 

"Ever  been  to  Cleveland  before?" 

"Once  or  twice,  on  business,  years  ago." 

"  It's  a  good  town,"  George  assured  him. 

"  I  really  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  Parrish 
answered.  "  I  just  went  to  a  hotel  and  an  office  and 
a  club." 

"Been  to  the  Athletic  Club?" 

"No,  it  was  an  old-fashioned  club,  very  nice,  right 
across  the  street  from  the  hotel." 

"Oh,  the  Union— I  don't  belong  there.  I'll  be 
glad  to  give  you  a  card  to  the  Athletic  if  you'd  care 
for  it." 

"That's  very  good  of  you." 

After  discussing  the  Athletic  Club  for  a  time 
George  drifted  to  general  talk  about  Cleveland: 
about  how  Cleveland  grew,  and  why;  the  city's  in 
dustries;  the  late  Tom  Johnson  and  the  cult  of  the 
three-cent  fare.  Then,  thinking  of  comparisons,  he 
went  on: 

"  I  don't  see  how  anybody  can  stand  living  in 
New  York.  Every  time  I  go  there  it  seems  to  me 
the  place  is  worse.  More  people — more  congestion, 
under  the  ground,  and  on  it,  and  above  it.  I  get 
the  feeling  that  everybody  hates  everybody  else. 
And  so  many  foreigners— low-class  Jews — parasites 


27o  RITA  COVENTRY 

—bolsheviks.  Scum  of  creation  piling  in,  producing 
nothing,  ruining  the  city — maybe  the  whole  country. 
Whew!  That  town  makes  me  depressed  about  the 
future  of  these  United  States.  When  I'm  there  I 
have  to  keep  reminding  myself  of  Ohio  and  these 
other  states  out  here,  or  I'd  feel  that  everything  was 
gone  to  pot." 

"No  doubt  you're  right,"  returned  Parrish,  "but 
you  must  remember  that  New  York  has  a  lot  of  at 
tractions." 

"Too  many  apartment  houses,"  the  other  went  on. 
"To  live  in  a  flat  seems  to  me  only  a  shade  better 
than  living  in  a  hotel.  I  like  to  feel  that  I'm  an 
chored  to  the  soil.  But  I  know  what  you  mean, 
about  attractions,  and  of  course  it's  true.  New 
York  does  offer  a  lot  in  the  way  of  things  that  are 
improving  and  entertaining — museums,  the  theatres, 
concerts,  and  opera — if  you  care  for  opera." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Parrish  hurriedly. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  George  continued,  "that  New 
York  is  essentially  a  battleground  where  men  try 
their  strength.  Business  competition  must  be  ter 
rible,  and  there  are  more  temptations,  more 

"  I'm  delighted  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Brooks  is  so  much 
better,"  Parrish  put  in. 

George  beamed. 

"She  certainly  gave  us  a  scare,"  he  answered, 
"but  she'll  be  home  pretty  soon  now — probably  bet 
ter  than  ever.  It's  a  darn  shame,  her  being  sick. 
She  didn't  need  to  be,  but  she's  one  of  those  women 


RITA  COVENTRY  271 

who  hates  to  leave  her  family,  and  she  wouldn't  go 
until  she  had  to.  That's  the  way  with  the  Meldrums 
— they  don't  care  about  a  whole  lot  of  people,  but 
Lord,  how  they  do  tie  up  to  the  ones  they're  fond  of!" 

He  seemed  for  a  moment  to  reflect  on  this  quality 
in  the  Meldrums;  then,  in  a  new  tone,  leisurely  and 
expansive,  he  went  on:  "Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to 
see  you  here,  Parrish."  He  cocked  his  eye  hu 
morously.  "I  doped  out  that  you'd  be  coming." 

"I've  been  meaning  to  come  for  some  time." 

"  I  hope  you'll  stay  till  Margaret  gets  back.  She 
and  I  are  interested  in  you,  you  know — hearing  so 
much  about  you.  First  thing  Alice  takes  out  of  her 
bag  when  she  gets  here  is  your  picture,  and  it's  the 
last  thing  she  packs  before  she  leaves."  And  he 
added,  with  his  infectious  chuckle,  which  sounded  as 
if  a  bag  of  marbles  were  being  rattled  in  his  chest: 
"  If  you're  as  much  of  a  man  as  she  claims  you  are, 
you're  quite  some  person." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not,  though,"  Parrish  answered 
gravely. 

George  chuckled  again. 

"Of  course  you're  not!  If  you  were  as  good  as 
Alice  claims  you  are,  then  you'd  be  as  good  as  Mar 
garet  claims  I  am,  and  there  isn't  anybody  that 
good."  He  shook  his  head  ruminatively.  "They're 
a  great  pair,  those  girls!  Alice — she's  a  sketch!  I 
don't  know  what  I'd  have  done  without  her  while 
Margaret  was  away — I  don't  mean  only  running  this 
plant  for  me  and  taking  care  of  the  children — I  mean 


272  RITA  COVENTRY 

the  way  she's  worked  to  cheer  me  up — and  the  way 
she's  amused  me  unconsciously,  too."  He  laughed 
reminiscently.  "Friend  of  mine — perhaps  you've 
heard  of  him — J.  N.  Burlingham,  president  of  the 
Cuyahoga  Car  and  Foundry  Company?" 

"  I  know  of  that  company,"  said  Parrish. 

"Well,"  George  went  on,  chuckling,  "Burlingham 
has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  me,  just  lately,  since  Alice 
came.  He  doesn't  come  around  my  office  very  much, 
but  he  can't  keep  away  from  me  evenings.  For 
about  a  week  Alice  thought  he  really  did  come  here 
to  see  me.  Almost  any  other  girl  would  have  caught 
on  sooner,  but  that's  one  of  the  dandy  things  about 
her — she  doesn't  seem  to  realize  that  anybody  could 
be  interested  in  her.  When  she  did  get  wise  to  it 
I  had  a  deuce  of  a  time  getting  her  downstairs  at  all. 
And,  Lord,  how  she  did  hang  icicles  on  the  poor 
cuss!  She  doesn't  want  to  be  mean  to  him — in  fact, 
she  likes  him — but  he's  not  going  to  get  a  chance  to 
propose  to  her  if  she  can  help  it." 

And  he  went  on:  "I  don't  think  it  pays  a  woman 
to  be  too  honest  and  straightforward.  She  does 
herself  out  of  a  lot  of  fun.  That  kind  of  woman 
treats  men  too  well  because  she  thinks  they're  as 
sensitive  as  she  is.  But  you  and  I  know  that's  not 
so.  If  we  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  and  she  won't 
have  us  it  may  be  a  hard  bump,  but  we  get  over 
it.  We  have  our  business  to  keep  our  minds  occu 
pied.  But  if  a  man  should  trifle  with  a  woman  like 
Alice  I  don't  believe  she'd  ever  get  over  it,  do  you?" 


RITA  COVENTRY  273 

As  he  talked  he  had  been  watching  the  smoke  of 
his  cigar,  but  now,  with  the  question,  he  turned. 

Parrish  reached  slowly  out  and  knocked  the  ash 
from  his  own  cigar  into  a  bowl. 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  said. 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  time. 

"Of  course  it  has  often  struck  you,  as  it  has  me," 
George  said  presently,  "that  in  any  relation  between 
two  people  one  of  them  always  has  the  upper  hand." 
And  as  Parrish  nodded  he  continued:  "Even  in  so- 
called  equal  partnerships  one  of  the  partners  is  al 
ways  the  stronger.  In  business  one  partner  will 
dominate  because  he  is  more  of  a  person  than  the 
other,  but  in  domestic  partnerships  the  man  will 
generally  dominate  even  when  the  woman  is  more  of 
a  person.  It  isn't  only  that  he  controls  the  purse- 
strings  but  that  his  position  is  stronger  because  he 
is  freer,  has  more  outside  interests  and  is  less  sen 
sitive.  That  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  rank  injus 
tice.  What  I  mean  is  that  men,  instead  of  getting  the 
upper  hand  of  women  because  they  deserve  it,  seem 
lots  of  times  to  get  it  for  exactly  the  opposite  reason— 
because  they're  so  much  more  selfish  than  their  wives. 
Or  if  the  wife  happens  to  be  the  more  selfish  one— of 
course  that  sometimes  happens,  too — then  she  gets 
the  upper  hand.  It  puts  a  premium  on  selfishness. 

"I  suppose,"  he  pursued  reflectively,  "there  is  no 
better  gauge  of  a  man's  quality  than  whether  or  not 
he  imposes  on  a  woman  because  of  his  advantage 
over  her.  It's  pretty  hard  not  to  do  it  sometimes. 


274  RITA  COVENTRY 

Take  the  case  of  man  with  a  wife  like  mine.  I  try  to 
be  on  my  guard  against  imposing  on  Margaret,  but 
I  guess  I  do  impose  on  her  most  all  the  time.  There's 
our  parlour  out  there,  for  instance."  He  gave  his 
little  laugh.  "When  we  moved  in  here  she  bought 
that  furniture  because  she  knew  it  was  the  kind  of 
stuff  I  liked.  Alice  says  it's  not  in  good  taste,  but 
Margaret  sticks  up  for  it  because  it's  my  style.  It 
isn't  what  she'd  have  for  herself  at  all,  though.  1 
didn't  realize  that  in  the  beginning,  but  I've  got  wise 
to  it  since,  and  I'm  going  to  remedy  the  matter  when 
business  picks  up  a  little  more.  That's  one  of  the 
things  I've  thought  about  while  she's  been  away." 
And  after  a  little  pause:  "Their  going  away  does  give 
us  men  a  chance  to  think  some,  doesn't  it?" 

"I  imagine  so,"  Parrish  answered,  feeling  as  he 
spoke  the  inadequacy  of  the  reply. 

He  liked  George.  George  was  being  extraordi 
narily  friendly.  He  had  a  feeling  that  George  was 
trying  to  make  him  understand  that  he  wished  to  help 
him,  and  he  knew  that  he  needed  help,  yet  here  he 
had  sat  as  uncommunicative  as  a  Buddha. 

"Look  here,  Brooks,"  he  said,  leaning  forward, 
"you've  been  bully  to  me  and  I  appreciate  it.  The 
fact  is,  I'm  afraid  Alice  is  thinking  of  refusing  to  see 
me  at  all." 

"  I  gathered  that  there  had  been  a  misunderstand 
ing  of  some  kind,"  returned  George,  "though  she 
hasn't  said  a  word.  She's  been  awfully  downhearted 
— didn't  want  me  to  know,  but  I  could  tell — and 


RITA  COVENTRY  275 

last  night,  when  you  telephoned,  I  got  out  of  the  room 
in  a  hurry,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  help  knowing  she 
was  crying.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  was  pretty 
sore  on  you  last  night." 

"And  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  Parrish  answered, 
"that  I'm  pretty  sore  on  myself.  Do  you  think 
perhaps  you  could  get  her  to  come  down  and  see  me, 
just  for  a  minute?" 

"Well,  I  got  her  down  to  see  Burlingham,"  said 
George  quizzically. 

"I'm  afraid  that  was  easy  compared  with  what 
this  is  going  to  be.  The  plain  truth  is,  I  don't  de 
serve  to  see  her." 

George  dropped  the  end  of  his  cigar  in  the  ash 
bowl  and  rose. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  said  Parrish,  "if  she's  really  sick  I 
don't  want  to  bother  her.  I'll  come  back." 

"Oh,  she  can  see  you  all  right — if  she  wants  to." 
He  moved  toward  the  door.  "I'll  go  up  and— 

"Wait!"  cried  Parrish;  and  as  George  turned: 
"My  God!  Tell  her  I've  got  to  see  her!" 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can,  old  man."  He  moved  on 
again. 

But  as  he  was  starting  up  the  stairs  Parrish,  fol 
lowing,  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Tell  her,"  he  said  in  an  eager  voice,  "that  it  isn't 
going  to  do  her  a  bit  of  good  to  say  she  won't  see  me 
—because  I'm  going  to  stick  around  here  until  she 
does!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  den  was  not  a  room  suited  to  the  needs 
of  one  nervously  waiting.  Small,  with  bulky 
furniture,  it  afforded  but  scant  space  for  prom 
enading;  the  only  straightaway  was  the  passage  be 
tween  fireplace  and  desk,  and  even  that  was  abridged 
at  one  end  by  an  armchair,  so  that  four  long  steps 
covered  the  entire  distance.  For  a  time  Parrish 
paced  back  and  forth  over  the  cramped  course,  smok 
ing  a  cigarette  which  he  had  lighted  after  discarding 
his  cigar;  then,  annoyed  by  the  restrictive  walls  and 
furniture,  he  dropped  again  into  a  chair,  and  finding 
his  cigarette  burning  to  a  stub,  lighted  a  fresh  one. 
When  his  second  cigarette  was  consumed  he  flung  it 
in  the  bowl  and,  opening  his  case  to  get  another, 
found  it  empty.  He  looked  about  the  room  for 
cigarettes  or  cigars,  but  could  discover  only  pipes 
and  pipe  tobacco.. 

Strange  she  did  not  come.  He  had  hoped  that 
George  would  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  come  down 
at  once.  He  wished  he  had  noticed  what  time  it  was 
when  George  left  him,  and  that  the  latter  would  re 
turn,  if  only  for  a  minute,  and  give  him  some  idea 
how  things  were  going  on  up  there. 

For  lack  of  other  occupation  he  wandered  about 
276 


RITA  COVENTRY  277 

inspecting  the  contents  of  the  room.  In  three 
group  photographs  of  football  teams  of  the  Ohio 
State  University  he  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing 
George,  and  he  gathered  from  inscriptions  on  several 
silver  cups  standing  on  top  of  the  bookcase  that  his 
host  had  also  shone  at  shot  putting  and  trap  shooting. 
The  books  upon  the  shelves  below  dealt  with  hunt 
ing,  fishing,  and  natural  history,  and  the  magazines 
upon  the  desk  were  sporting  periodicals. 

What  could  be  the  matter  up  there?  He  went  to 
the  door  and  listened,  but  the  house  was  as  silent  as 
if  it  had  been  uninhabited.  Perhaps  Alice  had  been 
lying  down;  perhaps  she  was  dressing.  In  that  case, 
though,  George  could  easily  have  come  and  told  him 
what  was  causing  the  delay.  Surely  he  would  have 
done  that.  A  nice  fellow  like  George  wouldn't  leave 
him  down  here  in  this  horrible  suspense  if  he  could 
help  it.  He  must  be  staying  because  he  had  to 
stay.  He  must  be  having  a  hard  time  with  her. 
Suppose  she  wouldn't  come?  Or  if  she  did,  what 
chance  had  he  of  obtaining  her  forgiveness  when  so 
persuasive  a  person  as  her  brother-in-law  had  such 
difficulty  in  inducing  her  merely  to  come  and  listen 
to  his  plea?  He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  the  palms  of  his  hands. 

Oh,  for  a  cigarette!  George  must  have  ciga 
rettes.  Again  he  looked  for  them,  this  time  going  so 
far  as  to  search  desk  drawers,  but  to  no  purpose. 

He  had  resumed  his  animal-like  pacing  and  was 
trying  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  upon  the  formu- 


278  RITA  COVENTRY 

lation  of  an  effective  appeal  to  Alice,  when  through 
the  slightly  opened  door  he  heard  from  above  the 
squeak  of  a  hinge  and  the  faint  sound  of  steps.  The 
tread  was  not  George's.  It  was  a  woman's.  She 
was  coming  down  the  stairs.  Coming  slowly.  He 
could  hear  each  muffled  footfall  on  the  carpet. 

Now  that  the  moment  when  he  should  see  her, 
the  moment  he  had  waited  for  so  anxiously,  was  im 
minent,  a  wave  of  fear  swept  over  him.  Had  it  been 
George  coming  to  tell  him  that  Alice  would  not  see 
him,  his  suffering  would  have  been  acute,  but  hardly 
more  acute  than  was  this  panic  at  the  thought  of 
facing  her.  He  dreaded  to  meet  her  eyes. 

By  the  difference  in  sound  he  knew  when  she 
stepped  from  the  last  stair  to  the  floor.  Now  she 
was  in  the  hall,  coming  directly  toward  him.  He 
stood  a  little  back  from  the  door,  waiting,  gazing  at 
the  place  where  she  would  appear. 

The  door  swung  slowly.  As  their  eyes  met  he 
saw  in  hers  the  look  that  he  had  feared.  It  was  a 
look  that  he  had  never  seen  before — how,  then,  had 
he  known  what  it  would  be?  There  was  no  question, 
now,  of  what  she  knew.  She  knew!  He  understood 
it  instantly  and  as  definitely  as  if  she  had  spoken  out 
and  told  him. 

With  her  hand  on  the  knob  she  paused.  He  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  she  looked  taller,  and  for  an  in 
stant  that  thought  stood  forward  in  his  harassed  mind. 
How  curious  that  she  should  look  so  much  taller! 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  hoping  she  would  say 


RITA  COVENTRY  279 

something  that  would  help  him  to  begin.  Perhaps 
if  he  could  once  get  started  it  would  not  be  so  hard. 
The  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  her  seemed  to  be  re 
volving  in  his  mind  at  terrible  speed,  like  a  huge  fly 
wheel  in  a  power  house.  He  must  seize  hold  of  that 
dizzying  wheel.  When  he  spoke  it  was  if  he  had 
leaped  blindly  at  it. 

"Why  you  look  taller!"  he  said,  and  wondered 
why  he  had  begun  with  such  a  fatuity. 

She  stood  motionless,  silent,  her  hand  upon  the 
door  knob  as  if  at  any  moment  she  might  turn  and 
go.  Was  it  perhaps  the  lines  of  her  soft  dark  dress 
that  made  her  look  so  tall? 

"Please  come  in  and  sit  down,"  he  pleaded;  and  as 
still  she  did  not  move  he  repeated,  "Please! — come  in 
and  sit  down." 

She  closed  the  door  and  advancing  seated  herself 
in  the  nearest  chair;  and  there  was  something  in  the 
way  she  sat  that  gave  him  a  feeling  of  her  imperma- 
nence  there. 

"Alice,  won't  you  forgive  me?" 

"You  broke  your  word,"  she  answered  without  in 
flection. 

"My  word?"  He  was  not  sure  to  what  she  was 
referring. 

"  You  promised  you'd  tell  me  if  you  ever—  -  Clara 
said  you  wouldn't,  but  I  believed  you." 

Now  he  caught  her  meaning.  The  promise  had 
meant  so  little  to  him  that  it  had  slipped  his  mind. 
Another  black  mark  against  him. 


280  RITA  COVENTRY 

"If  that  were  all  I  had  to  ask  you  to  forgive!"  he 
brought  out  in  a  low  voice.  "How  am  I  ever  going 
to  explain?  I  can't  explain  it  to  myself.  I  feel  as  if 
I  had  been  out  of  my  mind.  That's  the  only  shred 
of  defense  I  have  to  offer — and  it  isn't  a  defense. 
There's  no  justification  for  any  of  it,  from  beginning 
to  end.  You  couldn't  hate  me  more  than  I  hate 
myself.  I  loathe  myself!  I'm  wretched.  I'm  sick. 
I  never  deserved  you,  and  now  I  deserve  you  less— 
but  I  never  wanted  you  so  much.  I  used  to  imagine 
I  appreciated  you,  but — why,  I  didn't  at  all!  Not 
at  all.  If  I  had,  you  and  I  would  have  been  married 
long  ago.  But  I  had  selfish  delusions  about  the  ad 
vantages  of  being  free — just  as  now  I  have  a  selfish 
desire  not  to  be  free.  Oh,  Alice,  if 

"  I  used  to  wish  you  wanted  to  marry  me,"  she 
said,  still  in  that  uninflected  tone.  "Now  I  thank 
God  you  didn't  want  to.  If  we  had  been  married 
this  would  have  happened  just  the  same." 

"Oh— no!"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  it  would.  If  I  had  been  your  wife  you 
would  have  been  sly  about  it- — you  wouldn't  have 
told  me — you'd  have  got  me  out  of  the  way  just  ex 
actly  as  you  did.  But  I  didn't  come  down  to  dis 
cuss  this  with  you.  I  came  because  George  said  you 
wouldn't  go  away  until  you  saw  me.  Well,  you've 
seen  me — so  now  you  can  go." 

"Go?"  he  repeated.  "With  you  hating  me  like 
this?  I  can't — I've  got  to  try  to  make  you 
understand  something.  I've  had  an  aberration — 


RITA  COVENTRY  281 

but  it's  over  with.  The  thought  of  it  is  sickening  to 
me!  Even  if  I  never  win  you  back  I'm  going  to  try 
to  live  it  down  because  I  must  win  back  my  own 
self-respect." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

He  clutched  at  the  small  encouragement  afforded 
by  that  single  word. 

"When  I've  won  back  my  self-respect,"  he  went 
on,  "is  there  no  chance  of  my  winning  back  your  re 
spect,  too?"  And  before  she  could  speak  he  con 
tinued:  "Don't  answer  now.  Don't  take  that  hope 
away  from  me — I  couldn't  stand  it!  I'm  not  asking 
you  to  promise  anything;  I'm  only  begging  you  not 
to  efface  me.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  marry  me — be 
cause  I  don't  dare.  But  won't  you  put  me  on  pro 
bation?  Won't  you  let  me  try  all  the  rest  of  my  life 
to  make  myself  worthy  of  you?  Don't  answer  that, 
either.  I  know  how  you  feel  now.  Right  now  it 
doesn't  seem  possible  that  either  of  us  can  ever  get 
over*  this;  but  if  we  can  be  patient,  some  day  the 
wound  will  heal,  leaving  perhaps  only  a  slight  scar. 
That's  the  way  the  world  is;  if  it  weren't  so  life  would 
be  unendurable.  Probably  you  will  resent  the 
idea — but  I  must  tell  you:  I  am  actually  a  better 
man  to-day  because  this  thing  has  happened  to  me. 
It  has  humbled  me,  and  I  needed  that.  And  it's 
given  me  a.  new  sense  of  values.  It  has  marked 
me  away  down  and  you  away  up.  It  has  shown 
me  the  absolute  falseness  of  the  standards  I  used 
to  believe  in.  Sophistication!  Lord,  what  rot  most 


282  RITA  COVENTRY 

sophistication  is!  It  took  something  like  this  to 
make  me  see  straight.  But  I  do  see  straight  now. 
I'm  really  changed.  Changed  inside.  Oh,  I  wish 
you  could  see  how  it  has  changed  me!"  And  in 
this  moment  of  unhappiness  he  was  so  earnest 
that  he  was  theatrical — and  beat  upon  his  breast 
with  a  clenched  hand. 

"Don't  I  seem  different  to  you,  Alice?  Don't  you 
feel  it?  Don't  you  get  something — I  mean  some 
thing  like — well,  like  a  man  who  used  to  come  into 
our  office — he  was  a  hard  drinker,  and  every  now  and 
then  he  would  say  'I've  gone  on  the  water  wagon/ 
and  Bement  and  I  would  laugh  because  we  knew  it 
didn't  signify  anything  at  all — just  temporary. 
Then  one  day  we  heard  that  his  wife  had  left  him. 
The  next  time  we  saw  him  he  didn't  say  he  was  on 
the  wagon — didn't  even  speak  about  drink  until 
somebody  offered  him  one;  then  he  said,  'I  don't 
drink  any  more/  and  there  was  something  about  the 
way  he  said  it  that  made  us  know  that  this  time  it 
was  true." 

He  had  been  talking  rapidly,  but  now  he  paused. 
Since  entering  the  room  Alice  had  looked  at  him 
steadily,  and  though  she  gave  no  sign  of  relenting,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  expression  of  her  eyes  grew 
less  forbidding.  It  heartened  him  a  little. 

"And  don't  overlook  this,"  he  went  on:  "when  his 
wife  left  him  she  thought  she  was  through  with  him 
forever.  But  after  a  while  she  saw  that  he  was  really 
different  and  came  back.  They're  happy  now." 


RITA  COVENTRY  283 

For  the  first  time  Alice  lowered  her  eyes.  Her 
hands  had  been  clasped  in  her  lap;  now  he  saw  that 
they  were  clenched,  the  knuckles  showing  white  in 
the  lamplight, 

"  I  wish  you'd  go,"  she  said,  but  her  tone  lacked 
something  of  the  cold  resolution  it  had  formerly  held. 

He  longed  to  touch  her  but  was  afraid.  He  felt 
that  if  he  could  take  her  hand  the  something  he  was 
powerless  to  express  in  words  must  flow  into  her, 
charging  her  with  an  understanding  of  this  profound 
revolution  in  his  soul.  And  because  he  feared  to 
touch  her  physically  he  was  impelled  by  instinct 
to  try  to  touch  her  in  another  way,  recalling  to  her 
the  days  when  they  were  happy. 

"  I've  been  having  a  ghastly  time  lately,  all  alone," 
he  said.  "Night  after  night  I've  been  sitting  in  my 
apartment  longing  for  you,  wishing  I  could  go  to  you 
for  comfort  as  I  used  to.  Last  evening  when  I  was 
in  the  depths  of  despair,  just  before  I  telephoned,  I 
got  to  thinking  of  the  time  when  I  had  the  grippe  and 
how  you  came  in  every  afternoon.  You  used  to  fix 
my  pillows  for  me  so  much  better  than  the  nurse 
did.  All  day  long  I  had  you  to  look  forward  to, 
and  I  used  to " 

"I  wish  you'd  go!"  she  broke  in,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  dear!  Where  is 
there  for  me  to  go?" 

She  stiffened  in  her  chair  and  raising  her  eyes 
looked  at  him  savagely.  It  was  as  if  some  memory, 


284  RITA  COVENTRY 

all    but    dismissed,    had    returned    stealthily    and 
stabbed  her. 

"Don't  ask  me  where  to  go!"  she  cried  with  cold 
fury.  "So  far  as  I'm  concerned  you  can  go  any 
where!"  And  as  he  stood  astounded  at  such  an 
outburst  from  her,  she  continued:  "Why  don't  you 
go  back  to  Atlantic  City!  Back  to  Rita  Coventry! 
Back  to — to  where — — 

She  stopped,  gasping  as  if  suffocated,  and  there 
was  a  moment  in  which  he  felt  himself  actually 
quailing  before  her.  Then  quickly  she  turned  away 
from  him,  sank  her  face  in  her  arm  on  the  back  of 
the  chair  and  wept. 

Her  weeping  frightened  him.  He  had  never  heard 
such  tearing  sobs.  He  dropped  to  his  knees  beside 
her,  flung  an  arm  about  her,  and  drawing  her  to  him, 
pressed  his  cheek  against  hers. 

"Oh,  don't!  Alice!  Don't!  For  God's  sake, 
don't  cry  like  that!  Don't!  I  can't  bear  it!  Oh, 
please  don't!"  He  was  pleading  passionately  with 
out  knowing  what  he  was  saying. 

But  the  awful  tearing  sobs  continued.  With  his 
arm  about  her  he  felt  the  impact  of  each  shock. 
Never  had  he  so  desired  to  comfort  any  one,  and 
never  had  he  been  so  powerless.  He  snatched  out 
his  handkerchief  and  with  a  trembling  hand  tried  to 
dry  her  cheek,  as  if  the  stopping  of  her  tears  could 
stop  her  sorrow.  He  was  desperate  about  it,  like 
one  endeavouring  to  stanch  a  wound.  Her  sleeve 
was  wet.  He  pressed  the  handkerchief  into  her  hand. 


RITA  COVENTRY  285 

"Oh,  Alice!  Dearest!  Dearest!  I  feel  like  a 
murderer!  Don't  cry  like  that!  Oh,  please  don't! 
There's  nobody  else  that  matters  to  me  at  all! 
Alice!  I'll  go — I'll  do  anything — if  you'll  only 
stop!  Please,  sweetheart!  Oh,  please!" 

Again  he  put  his  cheek  to  hers,  tightening  his  arm 
around  her  to  fortify  her  body  against  the  successive, 
racking  impulses;  and  when  at  last  she  became 
quieter  he  knelt  there,  thankful,  almost  happy,  hold 
ing  her,  pressing  her  face  to  his,  stroking  her  hair, 
her  shoulder,  her  arm,  as  if  to  smooth  away  the 
pain. 

She  relaxed  against  him  with  a  sigh. 

"Dearest!"  he  whispered. 

She  gave  up. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  breathed  despairingly.  "I  love 
you.  I  can't  help  myself." 

"Thank  God!"  he  murmured.  "You  love  me. 
That  means  I've  only  got  to  make  you  glad  you  love 
me!" 

As  he  knelt  there  with  his  arm  around  her  and  his 
face  pressed  to  hers  there  came  to  him  a  memory  at 
first  seemingly  unrelated — the  memory  of  the  time 
when  he  had  almost  drowned. 

It  was  in  Maine  in  the  early  fall.  He  had  arrived 
from  New  York  just  before  twilight  and  had  hastened 
to  the  deserted  bathing  beach.  Off  shore  a  sloop 
was  anchored  and  he  made  it  his  objective,  swimming 
rapidly  through  icy  water.  While  he  had  some  dis 
tance  yet  to  go  he  became  conscious  of  fatigue,  but 


286  RITA  COVENTRY 

the  space  between  him  and  the  boat  was  now  shorter 
than  between  him  and  the  beach,  so  he  kept  on. 
The  last  few  strokes  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  ex 
haustion;  he  clutched  at  the  boat's  side,  missed  it, 
went  down.  Coming  up  he  had  to  swim  a  stroke 
or  two  to  reach  it  again.  He  put  all  his  remaining 
strength  into  the  effort,  feeling  that  should  his  grasp 
fail  this  time  he  was  lost;  but  now  he  managed  to 
get  his  finger  tips  over  the  low  wooden  rail  at  the 
edge  of  the  flush  deck.  For  a  long  time  he  hung 
there  in  the  frigid  water,  without  strength  to  lift 
himself  aboard,  facing  the  fear  that  he  could  never 
do  so.  But  at  last,  a  little  rested,  he  mustered  the 
remnants  of  his  energy  and  managed  to  clamber  up 
the  side  to  safety.  Never  would  he  forget  the  feel 
ing  of  relief  that  came  to  him  at  the  moment  when 
he  lifted  himself  gasping  to  the  deck.  Until  now  he 
had  known  no  emotion  like  it. 

In  the  moments  following  that  jeopardy,  when  he 
lay  in  the  lee  of  the  little  deckhouse  recovering  his 
strength,  life  had  seemed  sweeter  to  him  than  ever 
before,  and  he  had  something  like  a  vision  of  the  com 
ing  years  spread  out  like  a  lovely  landscape  for  him  to 
wander  in.  And  now,  confident  that  Alice  was  to 
be  restored  to  him,  profoundly  determined  to  make 
himself  more  nearly  worthy  of  her,  love  seemed 
sweeter  than  ever  before,  and  his  landscape  vision 
of  the  coming  years  was  made  beautiful  by  the 
thought  of  Alice  with  him. 

In  the  past  he  had  experienced  many  pleasures, 


RITA  COVENTRY  287 

vivid  but  short-lived — selfish  pleasures,  glittering 
little  pleasures,  ornaments  pinned  on  to  life;  but 
about  this  new-found  happiness  there  was  a  reaching 
out,  a  sweep,  which  seemed  to  make  it  integral  with 
life;  and  the  thought  struck  him  that  this  quality  of 
largeness  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  fact 
that  now  he  was  not  thinking  of  himself  but  of 
Alice — of  making  Alice  happy. 

The  three  harmonizing  notes  of  a  Chinese  gong 
echoed  through  the  house.  Alice  stirred. 

"Dinner,"  said  she.  "I  ought  to  have  put  the 
children  to  bed  long  ago."  She  sat  up,  turning  her 
face  from  him. 

"It  won't  hurt  them  to  stay  up  a  little  bit  later 
this  once,  will  it?"  he  asked  as  he  rose. 

"Anyway,  I  must  go  see.  You'll  keep  George 
company  at  supper?  It  won't  be  much — the  maid 
goes  out  to-night — but  he'll  be  glad  to  have  you." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  can't  come  down — the  way  I  look." 

"  But  you  must  eat.     I'll  carry  a  tray  to  you." 

He  followed  her  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  He 
wished  to  stand  there  gazing  after  her  as  she  as 
cended,  but  knowing  that  she  preferred  not  to  be 
looked  at,  turned  to  the  parlour,  where  presently 
George  joined  him. 

He  tried  to  express  his  gratitude. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  George,  checking  his 
stumbling  speech  of  thanks.  "Come  on  in  and 
have  something  to  eat."  He  led  the  way  to  the 


288  RITA  COVENTRY 

dining  room.  "  I  guess  by  the  looks  of  you  a  drink 
wouldn't  hurt  you,  either." 

"Thanks,"  said  Parrish,  "but  first  I  want  to  carry 
some  supper  up  to  Alice." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that,"  the  other  said. 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,  you  won't!"  Parrish  an 
swered,  mustering  a  smile.  "It's  the  only  thing  I 
can  think  of  to  do  for  her  right  now." 

Together  they  prepared  the  tray. 

"No,  we've  got  this  wrong,"  said  Parrish  when  the 
tray  was  set.  "We  ought  to  have  put  a  napkin  on 
first.  We  must  make  it  look  dainty." 

"All  right,"  George  agreed  tolerantly.  "Here's  a 
napkin.  You  go  ahead  and  make  it  look  dainty 
while  I  get  you  that  drink." 

The  tray  having  been  made  ready  before  George 
returned,  Parrish  carried  it  upstairs,  but  at  the  top 
of  the  flight,  not  knowing  which  was  Alice's  room, 
he  hesitated.  He  called  her  and  was  guided  by  her 
answering  voice  to  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  and  as  he  entered  the  dimly 
lighted  chamber  she  warned,  "Look  out  for  that 
chair." 

He  looked  for  a  place  to  set  the  tray,  and  finding  a 
small  table  appropriated  it  for  his  purpose,  carrying 
it  over  to  the  couch  where  she  was  lying. 

As  she  sat  up  to  inspect  her  supper  he  suggested: 
"Wouldn't  you  like  a  little  more  light?" 

"I  suppose  I'll  need  it.  That  one  over  by  the 
dresser,  please." 


RITA  COVENTRY'  289 

Turning  on  the  light  he  saw  his  photograph,  and 
hoped  that  it  had  remained  there  ever  since  she  came 
to  Cleveland. 

"Pictures  like  this  are  too  big  to  lug  about,"  he 
commented.  "  I  must  have  a  miniature  of  you  to 
carry  with  me  when  I  travel."  Then  returning  to 
her  side,  eager  for  approbation  of  his  handiwork,  he 
asked:  "Well,  how  do  you  think  the  tray  looks?" 

"Very  nice." 

"You  might  just  make  sure  you've  got  everything 
you  want,"  he  suggested.  "George  and  I  tried  to 
think  of  everything  but — oh,  I  forgot  the  salt,  didn't 
I!" 

"I  won't  need  it,"  she  protested. 

But  already  he  was  leaving  the  room. 

Returning  with  the  salt  he  placed  it  on  the  tray 
and  manoeuvring  to  the  foot  of  the  couch  sat  down. 

"  I  hope  you  feel  a  little  better?" 

She  nodded. 

" That's  good!" 

After  a  little  silence,  during  which  she  drank  some 
tea,  she  said :  "  Now  you'd  better  go  down  to  George 
— and  have  your  own  supper." 

Reluctantly  he  rose 

"You're  sure  there  isn't  anything  more  I  can  bring 
you?" 

"No,  thanks;  I  have  everything  I  want." 

He  longed  to  embrace  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  began,  "how  I  wish 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  George's  voice  booming 


290  RITA  COVENTRY 

from  below:  "Hey,  you,  Dick!  How  long  does  it 
take  you  to  carry  a  saltcellar  upstairs?  Come  on  to 
supper!" 

"Right  down!"  he  called  back,  but  he  did  not 
move  from  her  side. 

"May  I  come  up  and  see  you  afterward?" 

"I'm  sorry — I'm  afraid  I'm  too  tired." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  said  quickly,  his  voice  full  of 
solicitude.  "May  I  see  you  to-morrow?" 

She  nodded,  asking:  "  But  when  are  you  going  back 
to  New  York?" 

"Oh,  I  haven't  thought  about  that.  I'll  have  to 
go  pretty  soon — in  a  day  or  so — but  I  must  wait  un 
til  you're  better.  You'll  be  a  lot  better  to-morrow, 
won't  you?" 

"No  doubt,"  she  answered.  "Now  you  really 
must  run  along." 

"Yes."     He  looked  at  her  hungrily. 

Passing  by  the  back  of  the  couch  on  his  way  to  the 
door  he  ventured  to  bend  and  kiss  her  hair. 

As  he  reached  the  hall  she  stopped  him. 

"Dick." 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"This  lake  climate  is  so  changeable — did  you  bring 
warm  clothing?" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BEFORE  Parrish  left  for  New  York  he  had  a 
long  talk  with  Alice.  He  begged  her  to 
marry  him  as  soon  as  possible,  and  although 
she  would  give  him  no  assurance,  he  took  with  him 
on  his  journey  three  thoughts  to  comfort  him:  She 
had  assented  to  his  coming  back  to  Cleveland  a  week 
hence.  George,  a  matrimonial  enthusiast  because 
of  his  own  happy  experience,  was  his  supporter,  and 
this,  he  felt,  meant  that  he  would  have  the  support 
of  Margaret  also.  And  most  encouraging  of  all, 
Alice  was  worrying  about  his  health  again,  God  bless 
her! 

That  she  would  marry  him  he  now  believed.  His 
fear  was  that  she  would  make  him  wait.  What 
if  she  kept  him  waiting  six  months — or  a  year!  The 
mere  thought  of  such  delay  appalled  him.  A  ter 
rible  waste  of  precious  time!  And  he  wasn't  growing 
any  younger — that  ought  to  be  considered,  too. 

Among  other  arguments  presented  to  Alice  in  his 
letter  to  her  from  the  train,  he  made  a  point  of  his 
increasing  years. 

"In  a  couple  of  years  or  so,"  he  wrote,  "I'll  be 
forty — practically  middle-aged.  -Youth  is  going.  I 

291 


292  RITA  COVENTRY 

can  feel  myself  aging.  I  can't  stand  this  waiting. 
It's  going  to  make  an  old  man  of  me  if  you  don't  look 
out." 

However,  he  overlooked  the  fact  that  in  this  argu 
ment  he  was  exhibiting  a  quality  anything  but  old: 
his  impatience  was  that  of  a  young  lover. 

In  the  evening  after  his  return  to  New  York  he 
telephoned  to  Alice,  and  finding  conversation  with 
her  highly  satisfactory  called  her  up  again  next  night, 
and  the  night  after.  Telephoning  to  her  became  a 
daily  habit  with  him;  the  contact  thus  established 
made  him  less  lonely;  he  knew  what  was  going  on 
out  there  day  by  day.  For  example,  when  little 
Georgie,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  a  storm,  re 
marked  that  the  rain  was  combing  its  hair,  the  mot 
reached  Parrish  on  the  evening  of  its  utterance. 
Again,  on  the  night  of  Margaret's  return,  he  was 
introduced  to  her  over  the  wire.  Her  voice  was 
sweet,  like  Alice's.  And  again  on  one  occasion 
when,  Alice  being  out,  he  talked  with  George,  he  was 
in  position  to  gather  such  satisfaction  as  a  lover 
might  'from  an  exact  knowledge  of  her  whereabouts : 
She  had  gone  with  the  president  of  the  Cuyahoga 
Car  and  Foundry  Company  to  see  John  Barrymore. 

Parrish  went  to  Cleveland  the  next  week-end. 
Upon  the  occasion  of  this  visit  he  did  not  neglect  to 
point  out  to  Alice  that,  however  she  might  have 
passed  her  evenings  during  the  preceding  week,  he 
had  invariably  remained  alone  at  home  for  the  pur- 


RITA  COVENTRY  293 

pose  of  telephoning  to  her.  And  he  had  almost 
finished  reading  Carlyle's  "French  Revolution." 
Later  in  the  same  evening  he  managed  to  give  her 
his  estimate  of  John  Barrymore  as  an  actor.  In  his 
opinion  Barrymore  was  overrated. 

To  Margaret  he  was  drawn  at  once.  She  was 
like  Alice,  though  not  so  beautiful.  Her  face,  how 
ever,  held  that  same  sweetness,  and  there  was  a 
poignant  loveliness  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at 
George  and  the  children. 

Among  Margaret,  George,  and  Parrish  there  was 
no  concealment  as  to  his  aspirations ;  when  Alice  was 
absent  they  would  discuss  the  topic  frankly. 

"She  ought  to  marry,"  Margaret  said.  "She  is 
a  born  wife  and  mother.  I  suppose  being  a  bachelor 
you  haven't  noticed  her  tact  and  judgment  with  the 
children.  Marriage  will  do  a  lot  for  her.  It  will 
give  her  more  poise." 

George,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  looked  down 
at  her  affectionately. 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  said. 

And  she  glanced  up  at  him  and  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Margaret  was  just  like  her/'  George  explained. 

This  aspect  of  the  matter  had  not  hitherto  struck 
Parrish,  but  he  realized  instantly  that  what  they 
said  was  true.  The  essential  difference  between 
Alice  and  her  sister,  aside  from  Alice's  greater  beauty, 
was  that  she  had  less  poise.  Margaret  had  the 
serenity  which  comes  only  to  those  who  are  con 
scious  of  fulfilling  their  destiny;  one  knew  that  she 


294  RITA  COVENTRY 

felt  secure,  established;  her  husband,  her  children, 
her  house,  even  the  furniture  in  the  house,  seemed  to 
collaborate  to  that  end;  it  was  as  if  the  very  chairs 
contributed  their  quota  toward  making  her  feel 
sure.  Thinking  of  this,  Parrish  was  struck  by  the 
fancy  that  the  furniture  in  this  house,  although  it 
had  been  selected  to  suit  George,  and  although  it 
was  presumably  his  legal  property,  seemed  to  belong 
more  to  Margaret  than  Alice's  own  furniture  to  her. 
Why  was  it  that  an  unmarried  woman,  however  inde 
pendent,  never  seemed  so  completely  the  proprietor 
of  her  home  and  possessions  as  a  married  woman? 

Now  he  perceived  clearly  what  hitherto  he  had  but 
vaguely  felt — that  as  a  wife,  secure  in  home  and 
husband,  Alice  would  have  her  proper  background. 
In  marriage  she  would  bloom. 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  what  her  background 
should  be. 

Blenkinswood ! 

Blenkinswood  for  her  wedding  present !  Blenkins 
wood  restored,  with  the  old  portraits,  mahogany,  and 
silver,  back  in  their  places.  And  a  surprise!  He  would 
keep  it  secret  from  her  until  he  should  take  her  there. 

The  project  put  him  in  high  spirits.  He  felt  en 
terprising,  confident.  And  when  that  evening  after 
supper  George  and  Margaret  considerately  went  out 
to  a  movie,  leaving  him  alone  with  Alice,  he  had  a 
new  sureness  with  her.  To-night  she  must  definitely 
promise  to  become  his  wife. 

She  did.     She  was  quite  reasonable  about  it.     He 


RITA  COVENTRY  295 

was  able  to  make  her  see  that  the  week  of  his  pro 
bationary  period,  being  in  reality  an  aeon,  was  long 
enough. 

And  ah,  the  beauty  of  her  yielding! 

It  was  the  essence  of  her  nature  to  yield  to  those 
she  loved.  He  must  be  on  his  guard  always  against 
that.  He  must  spoil  her — because  to  spoil  her  was 
impossible.  He  must  teach  her  to  be  selfish — be 
cause  it  was  a  lesson  she  could  never  learn.  With 
all  the  spoiling  he  could  give  and  all  the  selfishness 
he  could  instill,  she  would  ever  be  contriving  to  give 
him  his  own  way. 

When  at  some  future  time  it  would  seem  to  him 
that  he  had  done  his  utmost  he  must  keep  on  search 
ing  out  new  contributions  to  her  happiness,  heaping 
them  up  before  her  in  atonement  for  the  past.  Ow 
ing  her  a  debt  that  he  could  never  liquidate,  he  must 
pay  and  pay  against  it,  so  long  as  his  life  should  last. 

A  trinity  existed  in  her.  She  was  mother — sweet 
heart — daughter  to  him.  How  he  wished  that  he 
had  known  her  when  she  was  the  age  of  little  Alice! 

With  her  cheek  resting  peacefully  upon  his  shoul 
der  he  was  for  a  long  time  motionless  and  silent. 
The  lamplight,  sifting  through  the  outer  softness  of 
her  hair,  crowned  her  with  a  golden  aureole,  and  this 
tender  and  pure  luminousness  about  her  head  added 
to  his  awe. 

Yet  he  was  aware,  in  his  feeling  for  her,  of  a  du 
ality.  Bound  up  with  his  almost  religious  adoration 
for  her  as  a  beautiful  spirit  was  a  passion  for  her  as  a 


296  RITA  COVENTRY 

beautiful  woman.  The  two  emotions  were  inter- 
twined  like  two  vines  of  equal  strength,  so  wrapped 
around  each  other,  so  inextricably  entangled  from 
trunk  to  tendril,  as  to  form  a  leafy  cable,  on  which 
white  blooms  and  red  grew  one  against  the  other. 
Instead  of  strangling,  these  vines  upheld  and  made 
each  other  doubly  strong.  And  Parrish  knew  that 
this  duality,  this  blending  of  adoration  and  passion, 
was  essential  to  a  great  and  lasting  love. 

He  craved  to  tell  her  of  these  things,  but  could 
only  whisper  over  and  over,  "I  love  you!  Oh,  I 
love  you  so!" 

And  as  he  murmured  to  her  he  felt  a  terrible,  sweet 
suffering  because  instead  of  rearing  for  her  a  palace 
of  his  thoughts  he  was  able  to  build  her  only  a  struc 
ture  of  old  worn  words. 

Now  they  were  lovers  again!  Yet  not  again,  for 
this  was  a  balanced  relationship  such  as  had  not 
before  existed.  This  love  was  new.  There  was  a 
fullness,  a  translucence,  an  unthinkable  glory  in  it 
which  imparted  to  his  spirit  a  rapturous  sense  of 
form  and  colour,  arborescent,  radiant.  He  was  ex 
alted.  A  pilgrim,  footsore  and  weary,  he  had 
stumbled  through  the  world  and  reached  at  last  the 
holy  place.  With  soul  and  body  bathed  he  had 
entered  the  temple  and  knelt  before  the  sacred  shrine. 
In  her  love  he  was  reborn. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  George  and  Margaret  had 
hardly  gone  when  they  were  back  again,  speaking  of 


RITA  COVENTRY  297 

having  seen  the  entire  evening's  show.  The  speed  of 
it  all  dazed  him.  He  found  it  hard  to  speak  with 
them  coherently  as  they  paused  on  their  way  up 
stairs. 

"And  when  we  are  married,"  he  said  as  he  sat 
down  again  by  Alice,  "there's  one  thing  I  want  you 
to  let  me  do.  I  want  you  to  let  me  plan  the  wedding 
trip.  I  want  you  to  start  out  with  me  without  know 
ing  where  you're  going.  Will  you  trust  me  to  plan 
something  that  will  please  you?" 

Though  she  assented  readily  enough  he  was  par 
ticular  to  make  the  understanding  very  definite. 

"Then  it's  agreed?     You  will  abide  by  my  plans?" 

"Of  course." 

"All  right,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "I'll  tell  you 
the  first  part  of  the  plan  now.  We.  are  to  be  mar 
ried  about  the  middle  of  May.  That  gives  us  nearly 
two  months  to  get  ready." 

She  smiled,  saying,  "Oh,  I  didn't  agree  that  you 
should  set  the  time." 

"But  I've  got  to  set  the  time  if  I'm  to  set  the 
trip,"  he  insisted.  "I've  got  to  make  it  seasonable, 
haven't  I?" 

Before  he  went  back  to  New  York  that  night  he 
made  her  see  the  soundness  of  his  argument.  Again 
she  was  reasonable — so  reasonable  that  he  almost 
wished  he  had  said  April.  But  two  months  would 
give  him  none  too  much  time  in  which  to  get-  Blen- 
kinswood  in  order. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ONE  evening  a  few  weeks  later,  when  Alice 
was  in  New  York  buying  a  trousseau  and 
arranging  to  give  up  her  apartment,  she 
spoke  to  him  of  Blenkinswood. 

"I've  never  been  able  to  understand,"  she  said, 
"why  you  don't  take  better  care  of  it.  That  is  one 
thing  I  am  going  to  try  to  make  you  do." 

It  gave  him  great  amusement  to  assume,  in  answer 
ing,  the  tone  he  had  so  often  taken  in  the  old  days 
when  he  used  to  put  her  off. 

"Oh,  let's  not  bother  about  Blenkinswood  now," 
he  said  as  if  the  topic  bored  him. 

And  it  was  difficult  for  him  not  to  laugh  as  he 
spoke,  for  they  were  in  her  apartment,  and  her  words 
had  interrupted  his  surreptitious  scrutiny  of  her 
chintz  curtains,  which  he  intended  to  have  duplicated 
for  her  room  in  the  old  house.  Moreover,  he  knew 
that  the  transformation  of  Blenkinswood  was  now 
well  under  way.  Not  only  had  the  shiftless  farmer 
been  dismissed,  and  a  young  couple,  the  husband  a 
graduate  of  an  agricultural  school,  been  established 
in  a  cottage  on  the  place,  but  a  large  force  of  car 
penters,  plumbers,  and  painters  were  at  work  in  the 
house,  installing  a  heating  plant  and  bathrooms,  lay- 

298 


RITA  COVENTRY  299 

ing  hardwood  floors  and  restoring  the  ancient  panel 
ling.  Outside,  a  landscape  gardener  with  a  gang  of 
men  was  engaged  in  renewing  the  lawns,  gardens,  and 
slave-built  terraces  sloping  down  to  the  river  front ; 
that  very  day  Parrish  had  received  from  the  gardener 
a  report  informing  him  that,  despite  neglect,  the 
hedges  and  arbour  of  box,  planted  on  the  terraces  by 
the  Signer,  could  be  reclaimed. 

The  boat-landing  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  was 
being  rebuilt,  for  a  hurried  trip  to  Blenkinswood  had 
reminded  Parrish  that  Virginia  was  still  backward 
as  to  roads,  and  he  not  only  wished  to  avoid  the 
rough  eleven-mile  drive  from  the  railway  but  desired 
that  Alice's  first  vision  of  her  home  should  be  from 
the  river.  He  could  imagine  the  expression  of  her 
face  when,  as  their  launch  should  come  around  the 
bend,  she  first  saw  the  venerable  mansion  crowning 
the  bluff,  the  sunlight  glowing  on  its  rosy  bricks. 
Landing,  they  would  mount  the  terrace  steps,  passing 
the  giant  azaleas,  the  wistaria,  strolling  under  the 
arch  of  box,  and  so  up  and  up  until,  ascending  the 
last  terrace,  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill,  where 
the  house,  with  its  two  long  wings  extending  like 
outstretched  arms,  would  seem  to  welcome  them. 

There  came  a  Sunday,  the  first  day  of  May,  two 
weeks  before  the  date  set  for  the  wedding,  when  Par 
rish  planned  to  pack  the  last  of  the  smaller  treasures  to 
be  shipped  to  Blenkinswood.  Coming  out  to  break 
fast  in  his  dressing  gown  he  found  the  Sunday  papers 


300  RITA  COVENTRY 

piled  on  the  table  in  the  dining  room.  After  pour 
ing  his  coffee  he  slipped  a  news  section  from  the  sheaf, 
and  leaning  it  against  the  coffeepot  before  him,  found 
himself  facing  a  picture  of  Rita  and  Delaney,  beneath 
which,  in  large  headlines,  he  read: 

DIVA    MARRIES    COMPOSER    SHE     MADE    FAMOUS 

RITA   COVENTRY    BECOMES    WIFE    OF    PATRICK   DELANEY,    SEVERAL 
YEARS  HER  JUNIOR 

SINGER'S    ASSERTION    SHE    WOULD    NEVER    WED 
RECALLED 

Stated  at  Time  of  Reported  Engagement  to  Italian  Noble, 
Domesticity  Impossible  for  Artists  and  Marriage  Certain  to  be 
Failure.  "A  Woman's  Right  to  Change  Her  Mind,"  She  Says. 

With  an  interest  keen  but  quite  impersonal  he 
read  the  florid  story.  For  him  it  had  no  more  sig 
nificance  than  if  it  had  been  the  tale  of  some  happen 
ing  in  a  city  he  had  visited  long  ago.  Rita  seemed 
strangely  remote.  A  reporter  had  interviewed  her 
and  she  had  spoken  with  a  brazenness  which  Par- 
rish  found  repellent. 

"Yes,"  she  was  quoted  as  saying,  "it  is  true  that 
when,  several  years  ago,  I  refused  the  Duca  del 
Valentino,  I  did  so  on  the  ground  that  an  opera 
singer  should  not  marry.  But  though  a  singer,  I 
am  also  a  woman,  and  a  woman  has  a  right  to  change 
her  mind. 

"Paddy" — here  the  reporter  described  her  arch 
look  at  her  young  husband — "is  enormously  gifted 


RITA  COVENTRY  301 

and  I  intend  to  see  that  he  gets  the  fullest  opportu 
nity  for  self-expression.  He  has  never  been  abroad, 
and  you  may  imagine  with  what  pleasure  I  anticipate 
acting  as  his  guide  in  my  beloved  France,  for  which 
we  sail  May  twentieth.  Some  of  my  friends  tell 
me  I  am  a  fool  to  marry  and  especially  to  marry  a 
man  younger  than  myself.  That  may  be  true.  I  can 
only  say  that  now  we  are  blissfully  happy.  What  if 
later  we  tire  of  each  other?  Shall  we  not  have 
had  our  hour  of  joy?  After  a  motor  trip  through 
France  we  shall  settle  quietly  for  the  summer  at 
Deauville,  where  I  have  taken  a  villa.  I  intend  to 
show  him  how  domestic  I  can  be.  1  shall  cook  for 
him,  sew  on  his  buttons,  and  mend  his  socks,  like  any 
good  wife." 

Sitting  there  alone  Parrish  burst  out  laughing.  He 
could  fancy  Rita  cooking  for  Delaney — once — care 
fully  costumed  for  the  part.  And  the  simple  life  at 
Deauville,  that  Mecca  of  jaded  Parisians,  with  its 
casino  and  its  one-piece  bathing  suits!  Poor  De 
laney,  how  out  of  the  picture  he  would  be!  He  was 
so  boyish,  so  ingenuous.  There  was  something 
really  fine  about  him,  too.  Would  that  fineness  be 
burned  out?  He  felt  genuinely  sorry  for  Rita  Cov 
entry's  young  husband. 

Breakfast  over  he  took  the  Sunday  papers  to  the 
living  room.  The  floor  and  walls  were  bare,  and 
packing  boxes  stood  where  the  furniture  had  been. 
Some  of  the  things  were  going  to  Blenkinswood,  some 
to  the  larger  apartment  he  had  taken  in  New  York. 


302  RITA  COVENTRY 

Today  he  would  not  have  time  to  read  the  pa 
pers.  He  used  them  to  wrap  up  the  silver,  I  to 
helping  him. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  bookcase,  where  were  the 
portfolios  containing  the  old  documents  and  the  en 
gravings  of  the  house.  The  papers  must  be  neatly 
arranged  for  shipment.  Opening  the  first  portfolio 
he  made  himself  look  at  the  engraving  showing  Blen- 
kinswood  "with  its  new  wing,  added  in  1791."  In 
the  centre  of  the  picture  was  the  ruinous  imprint  of 
a  sharp  little  French  heel.  Once  he  had  thought  the 
damage  irreparable,  but  now  he  remembered  a  man 
down  on  Fourth  Avenue,  very  skillful,  who  could 
repair  such  things.  He  would  send  him  the  en 
graving  and  the  torn  letter  of  the  Signer.  When 
they  had  been  mended  the  scars  would  be  almost 
imperceptible. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AD  you  honestly  have  no  idea  where  this  ship 
is  going  to  take  us?"  he  asked  Alice. 
"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  said  she.    "I 
don't  even  know  the  ship's  name." 

"Would  you  like  to  know  it?"  he  asked,  delighted 
at  her  ignorance. 

"No,  I  don't  care." 

"Do  you  think  you're  going  to  Florida — or 
Panama — or  South  America — or  Bermuda — or  Eu 
rope?  Where  do  you  think  you're  going?" 

"  I  don't  know  at  all."  She  laughed.  "Wouldn't 
it  be  absurd  if  they  came  and  asked  me  where  I  was 
going — and  I  couldn't  tell  them!" 

"Tell  them,"  he  said,  pouring  over  her  an  adoring 
look,  "to  ask  your  husband!" 

"I  know  who  he  is,  anyway!"  she  said,  and  after 
a  quick  look  about  reached  out  and  pressed  his  hand. 

"And,"  he  said  proudly,  "you  know  what  your 
name  is,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Parrish?" 

She  nodded. 

"Perhaps  that's  why  I'm  not  interested  in  the 
name  of  the  boat." 

A  steward  carrying  a  long  cardboard  box  knocked 
at  their  cabin  door  near  by.  Parrish  crossed  the 

303 


304  RITA  COVENTRY 

deck,  took  the  box,  and  entering  the  cabin,  opened 
it.  It  contained  Ophelia  roses — her  favourites — 
with  petals  shading  from  cream  to  a  delicate  pink. 
He  took  them  out,  assembled  them  and  placed  them 
in  her  arms.  She  buried  her  face  in  the  blooms,  and 
as  she  raised  it  there  came  a  little  flush  of  pleasure 
in  her  cheeks;  it  was  as  if  the  colour  of  the  roses  had 
been  transferred  to  them. 

Little  things  always  pleased  her  so! 

She  rang  for  a  stewardess,  who  brought  a  vase; 
but  the  stewardess  was  not  allowed  to  arrange  the 
flowers;  Alice  must  do  that  herself,  although  the 
vessel  was  now  backing  out  into  the  stream,  and 
Parrish,  in  the  doorway,  was  urging  her  to  join  him 
on  deck.  But  before  they  were  fairly  headed  down 
the  river  she  was  out  there  with  him,  watching  the 
cross  currents  of  shipping  and  gazing  at  the  massed, 
competing  towers  of  lower  Manhattan,  etherealized  in 
a  haze  of  smoke  and  bathed  in  the  soft  light  of  a  late 
afternoon  sun  which  shone  upon  them  like  a  rose- 
coloured  calcium  in  the  theatre. 

As  they  gathered  way,  passing  down  the  harbour, 
the  fresh  salt  smell  became  more  vigorous  and  the 
breeze  more  lively.  But  though  that  boisterous  wind 
whirled  skirts  and  snapped  the  sheltering  canvas  at 
the  forepart  of  the  deck,  there  was  a  mildness  in  it. 
It  was  a  breeze  of  spring — not  the  false  spring  of  a 
few  months  since,  but  the  true  season  of  resurrection 
and  rebirth. 

When  the  vessel  entered  the  Narrows  they  as- 


RITA  COVENTRY  305 

cended  to  the  deserted  boat  deck,  and  standing  by 
the  towering  stack,  watched  the  black  smoke  stream 
back  across  the  water.  It  was  twilight.  In  the 
sky  behind  them  orange  streaks  still  showed,  while 
with  the  gray  of  the  distant  shores  was  blended  a 
subtle  note  of  mauve.  To  the  north  and  to  the  south 
the  evening  sky  was  clear,  but  the  horizon  to  the  east 
was  black  and  menacing. 

A  great  liner,  which  must  have  started  some  time 
after  they  did,  had  followed  down  the  bay  and  all 
but  overtaken  them.  As  they  emerged  from  the 
Narrows  she  was  entering  behind  them ;  through  the 
Lower  Bay  and  the  Swash  Channel  she  pursued 
them  closely;  and  no  sooner  had  their  bows  made 
contact  with  the  open  ocean  beyond  Sandy  Hook, 
giving  the  other  sea  room,  than  she  came  up  and 
passed  them  arrogantly,  close  inboard,  her  sleek 
black  body  dotted  with  long  rows  of  porthole  lights. 
The  stream  of  sable  smoke  hurled  by  her  four  red 
stacks,  soot  banded  at  the  top,  was  like  a  stream  of 
curses  poured  at  the  humble  coastwise  vessel  which 
had  retarded  her,  and  the  picture  of  impatience  was 
heightened  by  the  nervous,  syncopated  flashing  of  a 
signal  light  above  the  bridge.  She  was  telegraphing 
with  it,  talking  furiously.  Furiously,  too,  her  four 
propellers  lashed  the  waves  behind. 

Parrish  recognized  that  proud  sea  challenger.  He 
had  crossed  on  her.  Moreover,  he  knew  from  his 
morning  paper  that  she  was  sailing  to-day.  And  he 
knew  more  than  that,  for  the  list  of  prominent  pas- 


3o6  RITA  COVENTRY 

sengers  that  he  had  read  was  headed  by  the  name  of 
Rita  Coventry. 

"What  a  beauty!"  exclaimed  Alice,  gazing  across 
the  water  at  the  other  vessel. 

He  assented,  mentioning  the  liner's  name. 

"But  we  aren't  going  the  same  way  they  are," 
she  commented,  observing  that  their  own  course  had 
been  swinging  toward  the  south.  And  she  added, 
"I'm  glad.  I  don't  think  that  sky  out  there  looks 
any  too  pleasant." 

He  glanced  at  the  dark  line  of  horizon  to  the 
eastward.  Then,  with  a  feeling  of  complete  finality, 
he  turned  his  back  upon  the  other  ship,  and  facing 
the  bows  of  their  own  vessel,  now  straightened  on  a 
southern  course,  gazed  at  the  calm  sea  and  the  peace 
ful  heavens. 

"Well,  dear,"  he  said,  "we  needn't  worry  about 
what's  out  there,  where  they  are  going."  And  he 
added,  "We  couldn't  ask  a  sweeter  sky  than  is  ahead 
of  us." 

Then,  as  the  wash  from  the  fleeing  liner  reached 
them,  causing  the  deck  to  lurch  a  little,  he  encircled 
Alice  with  his  arm,  steadying  her. 


THE  END 


A     000073195     o 


